What's Yours Is Mine
by PaintingGlass
Summary: He'll take and take, until she has nothing left to give. Obsession, manipulation, and dark not-quite romance.
1. Midnight Blue

_A/N:This is a venture into writing an overall darker Labyrinth fic - something I've only lightly touched on in Beyond the Mirror. I can't guarantee a happy ending as you normally see it._

_ Though I'll never write a physically violent Jareth, this is definitely the Goblin King written at his/my very worst. Some scenes will make you uncomfortable. There will be no dub-con/non-con, but there may be unsettling moments from chapter one onwards that may be triggering for you if you're uncomfortable reading these themes. The balance of power here will be heavily skewed in Jareth's favour. He is manipulative and he is cunning, and he's only out for his own fucked-up gain._

_If you want to read about the Goblin King as more of a charming rogue/romantic hero, then I highly suggest backing out of this story before it begins and trying one of my others. If you're still with me, I hope you enjoy the ride._

* * *

'Give me the child,' she implores, pale green eyes wide, her girlish expression one of measured wonder. The girl has practised that faraway yet meaningful stare before, both in her mirror and out in the open like this as she lets herself fall into fantasy. She has recited these same words time and time again, with enough passion and delicious innocence to draw his attention, but she still has yet to find the _right_ words, yet to find the courage to call upon him for real. She is a dreamer, full of life and imagination and therefore power, and Jareth wants it for his own. He watches her, and mourns that the womanly shape of her gown is spoiled by commonplace jeans and sneakers, and the adolescent hips and breasts beneath it, but both her body and her spirit hold promise, or so he believes.

One day, with the sheer amount of drive and determination she holds within, she just might become a woman to be reckoned with – the powerful heroine she has always dreamed of being, just like the ones she reads about in all her stories.

The Goblin King hopes to stake his claim on her long before that would-be woman has the sense to stop him.

Some other obligation draws her from her play that day, and Jareth hangs back as the girl goes running home in the rain, watching her from afar as she succumbs to some teenage tantrum or other. Her reasons for flinging herself onto her bed to mope do not interest him, but the fact that she has been left alone to fend for herself and her infant brother does. Every time she is forced into caring for the child, her patience grows a little thinner, and she takes another step towards begging him to steal her brother away. Jareth has waited a long time for this moment, his level of patience considerably higher than her own but not quite infinite, and he is ready to collect on all his endless weeks of waiting. Only then, when she gives him the right opportunity, can he take what he needs from her.

He knows, deep down within his bones and in the place his cold heart beats, that today will be his day.

She's shrieking, now, her ire directed more at the parents who have abandoned her than the babe she holds, but she doesn't yet know that. The babe is the one who shatters her peace and pulls her away from her room and all its treasures, and she tells herself she wants it gone for good. With what seems like all her strength, she launches herself into a dramatic plea, performing once more for her audience of none as she demands that the Goblin King take her brother, but she has read the book often enough to know that _these_ words are not the ones which hold power. The babe continues to cry, and though she resigns herself to tucking him back into his crib, something in her heart twists, and Jareth knows she is his. The real words – the _right_ words – come after, almost as an afterthought, when she finally lets herself utter them.

"I wish the goblins _would_ come and take you away, right now."

She leaves the child alone, but only a moment later she's back, and full of regrets. It's too late; the child and the moment is gone, and the next is his. He sweeps into the room in a show of otherworldly power, borne on pale and resplendent wings out of the thunder and fury of the storm. There's fear in her eyes as he takes his human form, but there's recognition there as well. Though they have never met before, at least to her knowledge, she knows what he is. She knows what she has done.

"You're him, aren't you? You're the Goblin King," she says, and he is gratified to hear _real_ wonder in her voice at last. She recognises his power.

Strong as she is, it does not take her long to abandon pride to beg for her brother's return, but that's not how these sorts of deals are done. The real dickering only begins when he conjures a crystal and holds it up for her inspection. He tells her truthfully that he has brought a gift for her – one that is as rare and special as she herself is. She already has the self-awareness to understand she is a little different to her schoolmates – the realisation that she will never quite be ordinary. It also helps that she is of an age where its unlikely a boy has wanted her enough to truly tell her this – to make her feel exceptional and desirable, and yes, even loved. She wants all of these things, as any girl her age does, to feel them and hear them, and to know that her differences are something to be embraced, rather than ashamed of. She wants all the romance and excitement as promised to her by her storybooks, and more.

Even more than that, she wants the dreams he holds in the palm of his hand – the chance to live out all of the adventures and fairytale fantasies that fill her sleep.

"Do you want it?" he asks her, and just for just a moment, in spite of her reluctance, she admits in her heart that she does.

Though she does not speak _this_ secret wish aloud, that one fatal moment of truth is enough for him to have her.

The dream is hers now as it flows from the crystal and into her sweetly innocent head, filling her thoughts and numbing her senses to all that exists outside it. She belongs only to the fantasy, and to him as he steps forward to stop her limp body from falling. Her slight weight is satisfying in his arms as he carries her over to the bed that belongs to neither of them, but will serve their purposes well enough for just one night. Already lost to her fantasy, the girl does little more than mewl and rub her face against the pillows, suspecting nothing.

The babe she thought to be lost has been carefully hidden all this time, secreted away with magic while he bargained with the girl, but now the Goblin King returns it to its crib with a sneer of distaste. With the wriggling, snot-encrusted thing safely deposited, he dusts off his hands and returns to the girl. She, at least, is somewhat lovely in slumber, a hint of elegance to her placid features and not a hint of drool around her parted lips. Jareth stands over her sleeping form and smiles as he doffs his cloak and loosens his collar. The mattress is too soft for his liking as he settles himself beside her and reaches down for his belt.

The leather drawstring pouch he draws into his hand is old and well-used, but the fine golden dust he pours from it is new, acquired specially from his herbalist earlier that day in readiness for this moment. It has been many months since last Jareth has had the need for such a delightfully wicked substance. He welcomes the powder's heavy, almost silken texture between his fingertips as he gathers up just a pinch, and sprinkles it over the girl's closed eyes, where it catches and sparkles on her dark lashes before being absorbed.

"Dream, love," he tells her, and breathes in her soft, despairing whimper. "But not alone."

He licks the remnants of the golden dust from his fingers as he reclines beside her, positioned so that he may keep an eye on both his sleeping charge, and the glowing crystal he summons into his palm. Within its glassy depths, he can see all.

Her journey begins as expected. She's on a mission to save her baby brother from his clutches, alone and confused in a strange new world, and so her mind conjures up a playmate. The hobgoblin is gruff and cowardly, yet ultimately soft-hearted – and here Jareth scoffs at the thought of actually having one so useless in his employ – and he is the first of an array of strange characters who will aid and hinder the girl in equal measure. Some of them accompany her on her path through a world of magic and make-believe, stumbling their way towards what she imagines to be his castle.

It's all quite innocent, really, and so Jareth entertains himself from time to time by reaching out to stir things up. When he slips into her dream, the world she weaves around herself takes on a darker shade. She sees him as her antagonist, the villain to her heroine, and of course she is right. Jareth humours her with a little harmless intimidation and a taunt or two, before drawing back to watch her progress from the shadows.

More than once, the girl's brother stirs and breaks the silence of the darkened bedroom with his squalling. More than once, Jareth is forced to put his fun on hold in order to quiet it. The child, perhaps predictably, shies from his touch and lullabies of old, and cries all the harder for its mother. His patience tested, Jareth considers making a present of the boy – there are fair folk in positions of power who would repay him handsomely for a healthy human babe – but he decides against the idea. It will hinder his future plans when the girl is inevitably blamed for her brother's disappearance, and so he drugs the boy instead, trading a few more grains of the precious powder for blissful silence. With the brother finally taken care of, Jareth is free once more to play with the sister.

Clearly, despite her fear of him, she finds him comely. The Goblin King stifles his laughter as he watches the girl's mind hard at work, painting him as some dark suitor who seeks the favour of a naïve mortal girl more than he craves breath. They are in a glittering ballroom, and she is dressed not like a fairy tale princess now, but a queen, and he is her king, inviting her to dance with him. He goes along with the act for a time, soothing the girl's worries with a gentle song of devotion rather than seduction as he holds her, trembling and rigid with tension, in his arms. She's quite comely herself in her imagined regalia, all doe-eyed innocence and heaving breasts as she tries and fails to keep up with the proceedings. All the while, she's thinking things she hardly dares dream, reacting to his every chaste touch as if it is a caress. She pleads with him to rob her of her virtue even as she baulks at the idea, but Jareth pulls back from her before the poor young thing can get herself any more flustered.

As it is, she's moaning to herself as she dreams, and a light sheen of sweat has broken out on her brow. Highly amused now, Jareth finds his handkerchief and reaches out to mop it away. "Calm yourself, precious thing. Anyone would think you'd never even laid eyes on a man." She's still far too young to have experienced any more than a kiss and perhaps a little clumsy teenage fumbling, but Jareth thinks it might be entertaining to peer in on her when she is older and that is no longer the case.

She settles back into a more restful slumber soon after he has given her comfort, her befuddled mind taking advantage of his absence to push aside those more troubling thoughts. It's only right that the heroine not be swayed on her quest, and so she breaks free of the ballroom and his thrall to forge on. In no time at all, she has stormed the gates of his castle and made her demands for her precious brother to be returned.

Jareth goes to her with a smile, humouring both the girl and himself this time as he makes one final plea for her to change her mind. He is dressed all in white, clothed to entice as he begs her to submit to him. In her borrowed bed, the girl twists and sighs at the appeal, but her dream-self remains true. Once again, she rises above temptation to see through his false promises, and she declares herself the victor. She has fought long and hard to get to where she now stands, and even in the rather simplistic context of her dream, Jareth can't help but admire her tenacity. He allows himself to crumble at her feet, and finally leaves her as she celebrates her victory with the new friends she has made. In her mind, she has played his game and won.

It's almost adorable, how sweet and pure she remains, not yet jaded by the many trials she will face on her way to adulthood, when so many her age are already lost to hormones and cynicism. She truly is a precious addition to his collection – one to coddle and make much of even as he slowly brings about her destruction. All of his dreamers lose their way in the end, but for now this girl sleeps on – a gentle and unsuspecting slumber with not a care in her head, and no fear of what horrors may await her.

His task almost complete, Jareth slides off the bed with a grin. He whispers a thank you to the sleeping girl, and then bends to kiss her forehead. His lips purse against her soft, warm skin, and when they pull back, they carry with them the last traces of her dream. The Goblin King reaches into his under tunic to retrieve a small vial, spitting into it before the girl's inner thoughts can curdle on his tongue. He replaces the stopper and raises up the vial so he can admire the unfurling magic within. This dream is a dark, midnight blue, and it shimmers quite enticingly when turned this way and that in the moonlight. It's pretty enough, especially for a first offering, but Jareth intends to have pulled a veritable rainbow from the girl by the time he's through with her. He swipes at his lips, still dripping with her essence, and grins as he watches the last glittering specks of the dream die on the back of his glove. He already has what he needs.

A simple clap of his hands has a goblin minion at his side, waiting to do his bidding. Jareth tosses the vial to it for later use. "This one's mind is strong," he says. "I think I'm going to keep her."

* * *

When Sarah wakes, she's sprawled across the bed her father and stepmother share, the one that no doubt her new stepbrother was made in, and her lips twist in disgust. Her forehead is hot and itchy, and she rubs at it with the heel of her hand. She didn't even think it was possible to sleep so deeply with the way her baby brother carries on. Toby seems to have quietened down now – at least one small mystery solved – but try as she might, she just can't recall lying down to rest in the first place. In fact, she can't remember much of the night as a whole, other than being pissed off at Dad and Irene, and even more pissed off at Toby. This isn't exactly his fault, but being cried at by a ten-month-old hasn't really helped her mood, especially when her stepmother insists on handing off her stuffed animals to him.

She can vaguely remember coming in here to get Lancelot back, but that's where her memories suddenly end. How could she have just dropped off to sleep when she was so angry, and why would she pick her stepmother's bed, of all places to do it? She casts a wary eye about the room, and she something cold and slimy shifts and slides in her gut, making her shudder, but there's no one around to see it. Her confusion and her embarrassment are at least her own, or so it would seem.

Even as groggy and out of sorts as she feels, she can't help but be aware that every last hair at the nape of her neck is standing on end, her body screaming out with some secret awareness that has yet to reach her mind. The room may be empty, that sense tells her, but it has not always been this way. She has been … what? Guarded? No, the strange shadow she senses holds no protective instinct towards her, save that which a predator might feel in standing guard over a kill. _Something_ has been with her that night, perhaps remains with her still, and the certainty with which she knows it forces a small sob from her throat. If she had woken with her shirt torn open, and her jeans wrenched down around her thighs, she knows she could not have felt more violated. Worst of all, she doesn't know or understand _why_.

Her suspicions over what has happened to her are still grey and ill-formed, crude shapes hidden in mist, and she staggers over to her stepbrother's crib with only a vague memory of sliding off the bed. Toby is sleepy but stirring now, one tiny fist clenched as if in protest of the new cold that fills the room. Sarah hurries over to close the French doors that she doesn't remember opening. She sees the ghost of her own face reflected in the glass, pale and pinched, as well as a splash of white upon a nearby tree branch: what she quickly realises is an owl. The silent, unblinking way in which it studies her makes her even more eager to draw across the long curtains.

Safely tucked away from the dark world outside the glass, she walks back over to the crib, where Toby is starting to kick and fuss. Sarah lifts him in her arms, finding him blessedly dry and oh, so warm.

"Hey, it's okay," she murmurs, more to herself than to the baby she bounces on her hip. "Don't cry, Tobes. Everything's going to be okay."

Having someone to hold, something to protect besides herself brings a wary smile to her face. School has been pretty tough lately, and she's probably more worn out than she realises. Scary though waking up has been, the unexpected nap does seem to have done her a little good. Now that the initial brain-fuzz has worn off, she feels a little less cranky at the world and everyone in it, Toby included. The kid is still tiny, too small to stay mad at, and he is kind of cute when he wants to be. Maybe he had a bad dream that night, too – one that seemed far too real. He just needs something to love, and hey, she has far too many stuffed animals as it is. Giving up one little bear – maybe not Lancelot, but _a_ bear – to give him some comfort won't be so bad after all. The more she rocks him, and herself, the more ridiculous her earlier worries start to seem. _Shake it off, Sarah. Just shake it off_.

"You're turning into a big boy now, and big boys don't cry," she tells him. "That's it, smile for your big sis. S'gonna take more than a bit of cold air and a grumpy old owl to keep you down, huh? That's right. Everything's fine. Everything's going to be fine."

* * *

Jareth, who needs no window to look in on the girl, simply smiles.


	2. Blood Red

She never bores him.

No matter how often he chooses to go to her, slipping into her room and her mind with ease, she always has something new, something fresh to entertain him with. Though he cannot control the exact setting of each dream, he can steer them in a direction he favours with how much of the dust he doses her with. If he wants her to remain happy and hopeful, he uses only a few grains; if he wishes to inspire fear or sadness in her, he fills his palm and allows the sleeper's sand to rain down on her upturned face, urging more of his dark magic to work its way inside her. The lighter dreams serve their purpose, each one a small yet integral piece in the gamut of human emotions he seeks to take from her, yet it is the darker side of the spectrum which holds the true power.

Her books of fairy stories and lore have left their mark on her mind, and more often than not Jareth finds himself following her into crumbling ruins or the nests of dragons, or into the grand, ancient castles of forgotten kings and queens. Though the Goblin King sometimes sighs at the clichés and outright falsehoods he's subjected to, there's no denying that her imagination is an exceptionally vivid one. Every detail, down to the bright shades and fresh smell of each and every flower is crystal clear, every last delicate petal a study in perfection. When she walks a path through these exquisite worlds she weaves, the girl hardly knows she is dreaming at all.

She can conjure great white mountains and the adventurous souls who seek to conquer them, along with deep blue lagoons which are bursting with merfolk and water nymphs, and shoals of sleek, silver fish whose scales gleam like diamonds. She can dream up tranquil forests and vast, lush meadows grand enough to make the faerie king himself weep, wistful soul as he is – but of course, the king of the goblins remains dry-eyed. To Jareth, every element he encounters in those dreams, be it flora or fauna, man or mythical creature, or anything in between, is but a stepping stone to something bigger and better in the future.

Sometimes, when he grows weary of her tales of chivalry and valour, he pokes about her room and her belongings to ease his boredom while he waits for them to play out. Thoughts of pawing through her underthings or reading her diary do not interest him in the slightest, but the technological marvels of her world do greatly. He picks up the strange Walkman he's heard her talking about, with its thin wire and curious buttons. After a bit of fiddling with the device, he finally persuades it to play music for him, though he finds its electronic notes and tinny sound quality not quite to his taste. On a shelf in her closet, he discovers a Polaroid camera – amazing, how small and sleek the things have gotten over the years – though he does not quite dare to make use of it. Blackened though his soul may be, he will not risk losing a part of it to a whim. He picks through her few teenage treasures, but in the end, he is always drawn back to his dreamer, always curious to discover what new delights she has to offer him.

On some nights, such as this, he takes his pleasure in allowing her a few minutes of joy within her dreams, before he plumbs the depths of her despair.

There's a reoccurring dream in which she finds herself in possession of a pure, snow-white horse, the noble beast tame enough to eat from her hand, and to follow her on her journey to school. She is fond of the creature, speaking in soft tones against his neck as she strokes his thick mane, before she mounts him bareback. Her shoulders are squared and she sits tall as she rides, leaning down only once to murmur encouragement as she carefully guides him up the handful of stairs leading to the school entranceway, parting the crowd of admiring students with a smile. Atop her horse, the sight she makes as she walks through the halls isn't quite comparable to Lady Godiva, that pillar of feminine grace and elegance she aspires to, but she thinks herself quite magnificent all the same. Her thoughts are full of pride, peace, and love for that horse – at least until Jareth grows bored of the same old scene, and steps forward to impose on them.

With just a pinch more powder, her mind starts to push past its usual confines, straying into unfamiliar territory. The halls of her school grow darker, longer, and the horse she rides begins to grow nervous, his ears swivelling, his nostrils flaring. The girl is excited at first, smile wide and hips open as her steed starts to move a little faster. Then, as the gentle rumbling between her legs turns to thunder, the light canter becoming a steady gallop, she starts to worry, and then to panic. Her murmured pleas turn to shrieks as the horse goes tearing out of her control, and all thoughts of poise and grandeur are forgotten. She's bobbing and flailing like a cork caught in the ocean, her eyes wide and her knuckles white as she tries to weather the storm. Her peers, once adoring and perhaps a little envious of her, are screaming now, falling over themselves to get out of her path before she rides them down.

She sees the oncoming plate glass window too late; instinct forces her to raise her hands to shield her face, and the act is enough to throw her balance. There's barely time for her to let out a yelp as she slips and falls. She hits the ground hard, but thankfully there's no physical pain in her dream. No, her true agony comes when she hears an explosion of glass, and her equine companion's harrowing bellows of pain. The horse has managed to make it through the sturdy window, but only halfway; jagged edges of the glass have caught him at the shoulders, with one particularly brutal shard embedded deep within his throat, mooring him in place. The girl reaches him at a run, but it's too late to do aught but watch the life slip from his wild black eyes, and have him bleed out on her hands. Jareth experiences it all alongside her, feeling the full extent of her suffering and sorrow as the beast takes its last wet, gasping breaths, and the hot blood that soaks her skin. The girl's strangled sobs of despair are the last thing he hears before he draws back from her mind, satisfied once more.

The single bed he shares with her after that first night is a touch too narrow for them both, and necessitates a certain degree of intimacy. Because of this, as he lies beside her Jareth can feel the way her body is shaking, racked with silent sobs even in sleep. Tutting to himself, he gives her an indulgent smile and moves in nearer, sliding an arm around her limp body and rolling her in closer towards him. One hand cups the back of her head as the other rubs a soothing path along her back, rumpling her pyjama top. The despair she reeks of is purely his doing, and yet once more, she will find comfort in his arms. He cradles her trembling form against his chest like a babe as he dips his head to murmur in her ear.

"Hush, sweet, foolish girl. You needn't cry. If something never lived in the first place, it's quite impossible for it to die – and in but a moment, your head will be clear, and it'll be like your precious horse never existed at all." His gaze falls to her lips, which still quiver with sadness and uncertainty, and he chuckles as he brushes his own briefly against them. That small, innocent kiss stills her fretful shudders, and she heaves a deep, warm sigh as she settles against his neck. "Sleep now, and forget," he whispers to her as he tilts her head forwards and presses his customary, thievish kiss to her brow.

The riding dream will never come again for the girl, and of course, she will be none the wiser. She will wake with the last traces of her tears still drying on her cheeks – the last remains of her gentle friend – and soon enough they, too, will be gone.

Later, when Jareth examines the prize he has stolen from her, he finds that dream she has sacrificed to him is the exact same deep, slick shade of red as her precious horse's lifeblood.

* * *

She's been staring at the same blank page for over an hour now, and she doesn't quite understand what's happening – or, rather, what isn't happening. Creative writing assignments have always been a breeze for her; hell, she can't recall another moment at school she enjoys as much as getting her paper back and reading the little note scribbled at the bottom in Miss Murphy's familiar red pen – except, of course, the time she lucked out and got to play the small part of Mustardseed in last year's production of A Midsummer Night's Dream.

With no breakout theatrical role forthcoming in her future, those few words of affirmation are the closest she can hope to get to all her mother's rave reviews, at least right now. Sometimes, when she's alone and feeling particularly insignificant, she digs those old school papers out and reads them over, and feels a little closer to the glamorous actress she hardly ever sees. She gets the urge to read a couple now, for inspiration, but she's far enough behind on her homework as it is. She has to focus.

The ability to create, to transform the ordinary into the extraordinary is in her blood, and yet now it feels like every last drop has dried up in her veins, refusing to give her even the faintest sniff of an idea. The more frustrated that lack of inspiration gets her, the less likely it seems that she'll ever be able to put pen to paper again. All that empty, pure white space sitting before her feels intimidating, somehow, bringing up a cache of bad memories – but of what, she can't quite recall. She thinks she almost has it for a second, flickers of icy white tickling at the back of her mind, before it starts to fade away. When she tries to chase it down, she's met with something dark – round, blackish things that might well be eyes – but then they, too are gone.

It's probably for the best – creeping herself out isn't going to get her anywhere with her homework – but she closes her notebook a little too eagerly just the same. Looking at that sick snowfield of white is the last thing she feels like doing right now. She goes to see what Toby's up to instead – something Irene will never complain about when she catches an unexpected break from watching him. Sarah still doesn't have much time for the woman, but after taking on more than her fair share of babysitting shifts, she gets how hard it must be to do it full-time. Being cooped up all day and subjected to messy feeding times and diaper changes, sound-tracked by a never-ending cycle of delighted squeals or sorry shrieks must feel pretty lonely. Once in a while, it must be nice to be able to take a minute to yourself to breathe and to hear your own thoughts for a change, and just forget about the baby.

She has a little more patience these days when it comes to her stepbrother, anyway. Ever since that strange night of babysitting, the two of them seem to have come to something of an understanding: she keeps away the dark, and the scary owl that sometimes lurks at the window, and in return he doesn't cry for her – and _only_ for her, to Irene's dismay. He doesn't seem to settle properly in his parents' room any more, wailing until the heavy curtains are drawn closed, and sometimes screeching his poor little lungs out even then. Irene sometimes mutters about dragging his crib into Sarah's room, just so he'll sleep through the nights. She's laughing when she says it, but there's a certain desperation behind her eyes that seems to beg her stepdaughter to at least consider the idea. Sarah would be lying if she said she truly minded. With the way her little brother chooses to cling to her side, sometimes looking up from whatever building block or drool-covered stuffy he's bashing against the floor to gaze serenely into her eyes, she doesn't quite know who's protecting who.

Later on, after saying goodnight and helping with tucking the little guy in, she treats herself to a little well-deserved TV with her dad. By the time she heads up to bed, she's way too tired to even think of taking on her assignment. Before climbing between the covers, she sets her alarm for an hour earlier than she's used to, and hopes it will be enough. She wonders if, for the first time in months, she might find something in her dreams to inspire her.

The next morning, when her hair is washed and brushed, and she has choked down enough of her breakfast to keep Irene off her back, she shuts herself back in her room and sits at her desk, her empty notepad open before her. Nothing has happened in the night to wake her lazy brain from its stupor, and so she knows she has to force it back into action. The time for waiting for her muse to come calling is over.

It's easier to write what she knows, and so she starts with last night, scrawling down what she can about sitting down to play with her little brother, before even that small scrap of motivation can be snatched away. Soon, she has a passable effort at a fantasy story: a half-assed thing where Toby's little plastic teeter totter takes on a life of its own and sends the little boy flying up onto the roof. Big sister Sarah is panicked at first, but she quickly steps up to the challenge, managing to rescue her baby brother and have him tucked safely into bed before their parents come home. Hunched over her desk, Sarah grins to herself as she even manages to throw in a little twist at the end: though Toby is safe and sound, his favourite teddy bear is still stuck up on the roof, and just how will poor sister Sarah manage to explain that? It's a pretty abrupt ending, all things considered, and the piece as a whole is shorter and messier than anything she's submitted before, but at least it's complete. She scrawls 'The End' at the bottom, and has the thing packed up in her backpack just in time to make a run for the school bus.

She has to wait four days in total, including the weekend, to get her paper back, and she breathes a sigh of relief to see a big fat 'A' in the top right-hand corner – though this time, predictably, it doesn't come with the little plus sign next to it. The grade isn't too shoddy for something she managed to knock out in less than an hour. What's missing however, is the part she loves best: Miss Murphy's invaluable and in-depth praise, where she talks about the characters by name, and commends Sarah on the complex world she's crafted. Instead, her teacher has written, simply, 'Good job.' It's still a compliment, but to Sarah it feels perfunctory and cheap, like she's been cheated out of any real praise, somehow.

_'Good job'? Yeah, good job _you_ don't know what it's like to have an actual life outside of this school, _she thinks, taking in her teacher's sensible haircut and dowdy, dun-coloured cardigan with a spiteful eye. Almost at once, she feels guilty for letting herself lash out like that. The only person deserving of her anger that day is herself. Her teacher only put the same, token amount of effort into her comment as Sarah put into her rushed, uninspired piece of writing. It's only fair.

Still, _'Good job'_. Sarah stews on those two words for longer than she should, unable to kick the foul mood they drag her down into. She knows she can write better than that. She knows she's worth more than just 'good job'. She _knows_ it.

That night, though she has math homework and an upcoming history test on Thursday which she should be focussed on instead, she sits down with her pen in hand to prove it.

* * *

Jareth, who by then has sat through enough of her more childish stories, conjures a crystal and a good brandy and settles in to watch her for a while. He has a feeling that this little tale will be far more interesting.


	3. Tickled Pink

Of course, his use of the girl comes with its complications. Her imagination continues to run wild and free, but the body in which it is housed is growing. Her simple life is beginning to change, bit by bit. The transformation is a slow one – so slow he doesn't quite notice it, at first. The girl is, of course, a little older now than when first they met, though not by too much. Though she still prefers her fairy stories to the vacuous fashion and gossip rags her stepmother is fond of reading, she pays far more attention to her clothes these days, and to the body beneath them. She wears perfume and fusses over her hair more often than she does not, and the tubes of lipstick and palettes of powder that clutter her dresser are of a slightly higher quality than they used to be. Jareth begins to suspect there is a boy involved, and heaves a sigh at the coming of the inevitable. Her dreams, and of course the desires which sustain them, are changing. The Goblin King has no choice but to adapt with them.

It doesn't require much effort, at first. He simply shifts the visits he pays her to slightly later in the nights, to ensure she truly is in bed and asleep when he puts in an appearance. After all, he doesn't want to tax her mind too much. Even so, on the past two occasions he has called on her – at eleven, and even at twelve o'clock – he has found her bed cold and empty. Evidently, his young mark has better things to do with her time these days than sleep.

When Jareth listens in on the ensuing arguments she has with her parents, he hears more of the typical teenage pouting he's now used to, alongside her vehement complaints about the curfew she has been given. For once, however, he agrees with her opinion. At eighteen, she is far from a puling young brat who must be babied at every turn. In his kingdom, she would already be encouraged to discover the world around her on her own terms, coming and going as she sees fit. Contrary to popular belief, the Goblin King, too, was young once, and well understands that integral time of exploration and personal growth.

That being said, it irks him that night to find her missing from her bed a third time, when he has already tried so hard to be patient with her. Independence is all well and good, so long as it does not interfere with his busy schedule, and he decides he will not be inconvenienced a moment longer while she is off out gallivanting. The Goblin King catches sight of himself in the girl's bedroom mirror as his scowl shifts into the pale and indifferent visage of his owl form, and then he takes flight to find her. He flies for several miles, far beyond the brightly-lit bars and diners of her home town, until he finally senses her down below him. Apparently, she has taken nest that night under the cover of trees, deep in the middle of nowhere, and in an impatient fluttering of his wings, Jareth descends to find out why.

Well, this is … interesting. If Jareth isn't mistaken, his headstrong girl really does appear to be all grown up, if the gangly youth currently latched on to her left breast is anything to go by. She's sprawled out in the back seat of some rustbucket of a Ford, her pale thighs parted, with an inexperienced whelp bucking and writhing between them. Jareth swoops in for a closer look; this new diversion is almost enough to make him forget about his earlier irritation. Yes, sweet little Sarah isn't so little any more, but the sight of her on her back in something that could almost be described as pleasure is certainly a sweet one.

Jareth can overlook the fool who's fumbling with her in order to appreciate the aesthetic appeal of her body: the smooth line of her calf where it hangs down over the front seat's headrest, and the taut, rosy peak of an uncovered breast. He can admire the shape her full, pink lips make as she moans for more of the boy's touch. Her needy panting fogs up the glass which separates them, yet he can still the way her hips twist to seek out what she wants, and how her nails – also painted a dusky pink – come up to claw at her beau's heaving back. She needs more than what the oblivious boy is giving her, but while he has his stiff little cock nudged up against her soft belly and one plump tit sucked into his mouth, it may be a fair while before the lad sees fit to notice – if he ever does.

Jareth can tell just by watching that this won't be the first time the poor girl's wants have been overlooked, and it certainly won't be the last. There's a certain resignation to the sighs of passion she forces out now, and Jareth chuckles to himself as he imagines her slinking home to her empty bed, slick and aroused, yet ultimately unfulfilled. He thinks it might serve as adequate punishment for inconveniencing him with this teenage foolishness in the first place. He listens on as her moans grow a little impatient, her breathless pleas a little less sincere. Luckily, her clueless beau takes some sort of signal from the unconvincing sounds she makes, and he grows a little bolder.

Sarah's moans shift in pitch as one of the boy's hands manages to find its way under her skirt at last. Her slim hips arch up off the dirty car seat as he clumsily begins to pet her over her underwear. Finally, she's interested again; finally, she actually shivers with pleasure when her lover proves innovative enough to lap at one semi-erect nipple while his hand works between her legs. Jareth is almost beside himself with glee by the time the lad finally gets his fingers wet. Oh, this is delightfully _awkward_. It's astounding what a little natural lubrication will do for the fragile male ego. The boy is crooning to her now, giving voice to such erotic delights as '_my baby's so wet for me_', and '_you've got the hottest pussy I ever felt_'.

Jareth would almost be tempted to award him points for his enthusiasm alone, if he weren't so lacking in technique. Granted, the car is dark and the angle he has to work with isn't the greatest, but there's simply no excuse for mistaking the girl's urethral opening for her clitoris. Jareth almost winces along with the girl as she shifts and grunts, and does her best to subtly redirect her clueless lover's attention elsewhere. It's clear she's also lacking in experience – enough so to be nervous when, after no other preparation, the boy slips off her underwear and expresses his desire to '_put it inside_' her. Any actual pleasure she gains from this is sure to be incidental, at best.

Jareth has no wild notions of taking the girl's purity himself, and yet it displeases him in some vague way to think of her being poked and prodded open by one so inept. He can feel her anxiety, and her acquiescence, as the boy atop her fumbles out his prick. He watches the wary, rather than eager way she glances down between their bodies to make sure that at least the condom is handled correctly that night. He hears the stuttered sigh she breathes out as the boy's latex-covered tip starts to push between her labia. He wonders just what she will look like as she is penetrated for the very first time, and discovers the dull pleasure of it to be not quite worth the pain.

Feeling uncharacteristically charitable in that moment, Jareth decides to intervene and do both the girl and himself a favour. He dives in with an ear-splitting screech, going against decades of hunter's instinct to create as much noise as possible. His wings beat against the car's dented bodywork, his talons tapping at the rear window, startling the two young lovers out of their reverie. Whatever crude comment the boy slings at him is lost to insignificance when the Goblin King meets Sarah's eyes, and he sees the gleam of awareness there.

She does not know him, and yet she sees, and she understands. He has given her the out she needs.

She has a chance here, and she is willing to take it.

His work done, Jareth retreats back into the shelter of the trees – but not too far.

When her boyfriend makes an attempt to move over her again, it's clear the fun is over, at least for tonight. Sarah sits up with some difficulty, covering her breasts with one arm and using the other to gently urge her eager lover back. "Michael … Michael, stop. This place gives me the creeps. I want to go home."

The boy groans and presses a wet kiss to her neck. Of course he's reluctant to give up when he's this close to getting his end away. "Come on, baby. It was just a dumb bird, that's all. I'm gonna make you feel so good …"

Still, Sarah insists, her bra pulled back into place already, one hand fishing around on the filthy floor mat for her discarded knickers. "No, I'm just … I'm just not in the mood for this tonight. I'm sorry, it's just me. I really don't like it out here. It's all dark and spooky and … look, I just want to go home."

The boy sighs, and in his most put-upon tone, he agrees that they can, indeed, drive back. "But could you at least …you know … with your mouth again?" he asks, gesturing down to his cock. His voice takes on a rather distasteful nasally note as he tries to wheedle a little more out of her. "It's just … you're so beautiful, and I want you so bad, and you already got me so hard and all …"

The Goblin King doesn't care to stick around to watch the ensuing haggling; he's quite certain his Sarah is shrewd enough to talk her beau down to an unenthusiastic handjob, and he has no desire to see if her technique is up to scratch just yet.

He does, however, decide to look in on her again once she is alone in her room, the events of the evening still weighing on her mind. Though her body is indeed lovely as she undresses for bed, it's the rapid shifts in her emotional state that Jareth finds himself fixated upon. Her frustration radiates from her in waves, plain to see in the artless way she tears out of her clothes and scrubs the make-up from her face, but he can sense a hint of regret below the surface as well. She's wondering if she should have gone through with it. If that's all she has to look forward to when it comes to sex, then maybe she should have just bitten the bullet after all and gotten it over with. It isn't, she mourns to herself, like she has anything more to hope for.

Of course, Jareth cannot resist the opportunity to show the poor girl how wrong she is.

In her dreams that night, she's in the back of that old car again, hoping to relive the faint spark of pleasure she felt, rather than dwelling on the disappointment and that fuzzy feeling of shame that lingers with her. She can't bring herself to think of the boyfriend she doesn't quite love, and it's easy enough for Jareth to take the poor sap's place in her thoughts. When he climbs into the back seat with her, she doesn't protest – does not even question his presence there, rather than that of young Michael.

Her skirt is already hiked up high, and she spreads her thighs just as willingly as she did earlier that night, and so Jareth settles himself between them with a smile. He supports himself on one hand as he leans down over her luscious body, allowing the other to toy with a silken strand of her hair. Even here, within her mind, her hair carries the same subtle fragrance as it does in her waking life: coconut, and something sweeter still that he thinks might be vanilla. It is the first time he has experienced the scent in such an intimate setting, and he finds it rather heady.

"Miss me, love?" he asks her, even as she curls her leg around his hip and loops her arms around his neck.

"I _have_ met you somewhere before," she tells him, frowning even as she draws him closer. Her eyes search his for more than he is willing to offer her.

"I've no doubt that you have, somewhere or other … but that's not why we're here, is it?"

"I guess not."

"We're here because you wanted more tonight, didn't you? More than just a little inadequate fumbling."

Her lips part in what he thinks might be dismay. "You _saw_ that? How much did you see?"

Jareth sniffs and chooses to ignore the question. "You wanted more, did you not?" he presses.

"God, yes."

He smiles down at her in sympathy that isn't quite all feigned. "I know, precious thing. I know just what you need, and it'll come soon enough."

Her eyes spark with hope, as well as hunger. "Really?"

Jareth grins. "Oh, I guarantee it."

He has been a touch neglectful, he thinks, not to have seen to this sooner. In this, as in the expansive worlds of her dreams, it's clear she would benefit from a little of his guidance. It would be quite selfish to deny them both the benefit of his experience. He has a clear purpose for being here with her tonight, but he is not quite so removed from the proceedings to ignore her beauty. Just having her beneath him like this, lush and aroused, and more than willing, is already beginning to have its effect. No, he thinks to himself, it just won't do to be selfish when it comes to her, and to this.

Though it is not the first time he has kissed her, it is the first time he has done so with any true intent, other than to quiet her. He allows no more than a soft skim of his mouth against hers, yet even so he is caught off guard by the electricity that passes between the two of them. The heat of her spreads from his lips to prickle at the nape of his neck, and slowly trickles its way down his spine. His buttocks clench, and he thrusts against her by instinct, feeling her warm sigh of pleasure as he does. Her fingers move into his hair, petting and stroking as she arches up to him for more. She's fast in seeking out what she wants, but mercifully, he is quicker.

He evades her lips by giving her a quick peck on the nose, and while she blinks in confusion, he takes advantage of the moment to nip at her throat. It's the right move; her head rolls back, neck bared in offering to him, and her low hum of delight buzzes through his lips. Jareth smiles against her neck, confident in regaining a little of his control as he witnesses her finally letting go of her own. With just a few hot kisses, teasing passes of his tongue and the barest graze of his teeth, she's a shuddering wreck. He can hardly keep her still as she thrashes beneath him, her dark head tossing from side to side, her nails no doubt leaving their mark on the back of his neck. The most delicious sensation curls its way around his cock when he imagines those vicious little claws of hers scoring their way down his back and digging into his arse.

"Please … god, I don't even know your name …"

"You don't care about my name," he murmurs against her pale throat. "As turned on as you are, you'd let almost anyone have you like this right now."

"Oh, _fuck_ …"

He feels the tentative rock of her hips beneath him, impatience finally overcoming her inexperience, and he chuckles to himself. She's too shy, and perhaps a little too mindful of her boyfriend's pride to show the lad where he's going so dreadfully wrong, but she has no such problems with _him_. She knows what she wants. Jareth decides he likes her initiative, and supposes that a little light teasing won't do any harm. His hand trails downwards, grazing the curve of one breast and the dip of her waist, appreciative of both the warmth of her body and the way she shivers at his touch. In spite of the confusion that tries to push its way to the forefront of her thoughts, she wants to have a little more fun here, with this near stranger. This is only a dream, after all. Jareth smiles as he takes hold of her hip and begins to guide her at a pace he knows will please them both. He mouths at her neck and grinds himself against her as her soft, heated gasps spread mist along the car's rear window.

She's a little clumsy at first, her eagerness causing her to struggle to meet his rhythm, but he is not troubled. She will learn; Jareth vows to see to it personally. He tightens his grip on her and drags her a little further under him, so that she can focus fully on what he's doing to her, rather than the ache in her neck from being squashed up against the car door. Once she's comfortable, he squeezes her hip and angles himself just so, letting her feel him rubbing against the sweet spot that so often goes neglected. He thrusts, and breathes laughter against her skin as her moans immediately deepen in pitch.

"Like this, sweet girl. Doesn't that feel better? This is how it'll be when he's fucking you – nothing but pleasure."

Those wide green eyes blink up at him in confusion. "He?"

"Your chosen lover, of course. This is how he'll guide you against him as his cock stretches you for the first time – just imagine it." The idea alone brings a pretty flush to her cheeks, but he's somewhat proud to see she holds his stare.

"Oh … you mean Michael?"

Jareth chuckles. "No, love, most definitely _not_ Michael. You know as well as I do that he can't give you what you want." He knows she can feel what she has done to him – feel the hardness that's rocked up against her, giving her just a tiny hint of what she needs. Jareth allows himself to savour the dream-warmth of her barely-covered body against his shaft, feeling himself throb in response to her proximity. He's teasing himself as much as he is her now, knowing he has no intention of actually being inside her that night, but it's worth it for the way she _writhes_ for him.

"You're going to meet – no. You're going to _seek out_ someone who knows how to touch, and to tease you properly. You're going to leave your pathetic little playmate and look for someone new … someone who can get you dripping with hardly a brush of his fingertips. I want you to gaze into his eyes and feel your sweet, innocent cunt _clench_ with the need for him to be inside you. Only then, when you find the right man, the one who makes your mouth run dry and that delicious place between your legs run wet, will you allow yourself to give the full gift of your body. You'll give yourself to him, and he, in thanks, will teach you all you need to know, all about passion and pleasure, and always making sure to get just what you want. He's going to turn your world on its head, and he's going to make you scream as he works you apart, piece … by piece … by piece."

His own cock jerks at the idea, but Jareth lets it go unsatisfied. "He's going to fuck you, sweet Sarah, and as he makes you come, wailing, around his cock, you're going to wonder how you ever lived without such ecstasy."

He sees how her eyes darken with lust, how much she craves the things he speaks of, and it is enough to satisfy him. He doubts her young beau will make it through the next morning without receiving the dreaded break-up call – the one which will be sure to deflate his cock, if not his heart as well. There's nothing to be done about it; lovely Sarah is simply ready for pastures new. All she needed was one tiny push in the right direction.

Now she has assured him of her obedience, he is ready to leave her to enjoy the rest of her sleep in peace. For the second time that night, though, she surprises him.

Shy fingers slide their way between both their bodies, still too timid to actually touch him, yet bold enough to begin to tug her soaked knickers aside. Oh, she longs for it to be him! His promises of a new lover – a better lover – have been heard and welcomed, and now she wants them fulfilled. The foolish girl wants him to feel her heat and wetness, the hot, impossibly tight clutch of her naïve young body, and Jareth purrs his pleasure at just how much she's already willing to offer him.

Original plans aside, Jareth takes a moment to consider. He knows he could fuck her here and now, safe within her fantasy, where her body will remain her own, and she needn't ever know what delights she has surrendered to him in sleep. She might even be persuaded to call out for him in the dark when she wakes, pleading in hushed tones for him to take her for real. It has been many years since last he had the pleasure of breaking in a blushing virgin, and the Goblin King won't deny that he is, to say the least, rather tempted. For just a few seconds, he contemplates trading a little of his power over her for a few minutes of pleasure, before the immediate urge passes.

He settles for kissing her full on the mouth instead, his tongue tracing the seam of her plush lips before pushing between them. She opens to him at once, yielding to his advances, yet demanding of more – always _more_. One day, it might be interesting to see just how much she wants from him … and just how much she's able to take. For now, though, just the thought of that distant day is enough. He can well imagine just how good she will feel on his cock, but she still has far too much left to give him before he can truly enjoy himself with her.

He steals away from her with a smile, back into her room with all its girlish trappings, and away from the temptation of her mind and sweetest of mouths. Even in her sleep, she manages to make her displeasure known; Jareth chuckles as he takes in the deep crease between her eyebrows, and the soft sound that leaves her lips is that of pure, childish disappointment. Hearing it goes some way towards tamping down his own frustrations. There will be other nights, he promises himself as he strokes her hair, and many of them.

"You still have a lot of growing up to do, precious. Fortunately for you, I might just stick around to help with that."

Just like her parents, he has already set himself the task of keeping a closer eye on any future boyfriends the girl might encounter. He – and therefore she – will wait however long it takes for one who meets his approval to come along. A gallant undertaking, one might think, but it's far from a father's protective instinct he feels as he imagines putting those boys through their paces, to find the one who's worthy of his girl. Rather than a true young gentleman, he wants someone who'll teach his innocent little Sarah the finest, filthiest of things … and he'll settle for no less. He has plenty of his own little gifts to bestow upon her, the odd fantasy that will further her education and her descent into depravity, but for now, he's content just to watch.

Which he does, quite closely.

When Sarah wakes, it doesn't take her long to reach out for what she has been denied, her body already bathed in sweat and the heat of arousal, her legs already shifting apart beneath the covers. She brings herself to a shuddering climax with one hand pressed deep into the crux of her thighs, and the other clamped tightly across her mouth. At first, Jareth thinks she's simply trying to stifle her moans, but a gentle sift through the girl's thoughts tells him otherwise. In her fantasy – the one responsible for such a powerful orgasm – there's a mysterious man atop and inside of her, and the hand covering her mouth, denying both her voice and the air she needs to live, belongs to him. That mysterious _he_ controls her pleasure, only permitting her to breathe once she has given in to him totally, coming hard as the lack of oxygen reduces her world to dark new sensations.

Afterwards, she blushes and presses her hot face into her cool pillow as she regains her breath. She can hardly believe what she has done, startled to look back on the sheer ferocity of her need, and more than a little ashamed of the strange path her thoughts seem to have taken – a path she's already a little afraid of venturing any further down. She shivers in her dark bedroom and draws the covers a bit tighter around her body, but the heat between her thighs remains. Jareth leaves her that way, dazed yet still wanting as she ponders just where that new path might lead.

"Oh, sweet, sweet Sarah. Whatever am I going to do with you?"

As resourceful as he is, the Goblin King already has a few ideas in mind.


	4. Green-eyed Monster

It begins as something of a game to him, as he takes a closer look at the girl's life outside of her bedroom, scanning the thoughts of every man, old or young, who she encounters in her day to day life, and wondering just how deeply they might debauch her. Certainly, the human world has no shortage of hungry men with an eye for youth and beauty; too many of them would likely give their right eye for the chance to despoil his lovely Sarah, who has blossomed oh, _so_ prettily. Unfortunately, the discerning Goblin King suspects that the vast majority lack both the skill and the stamina to do anything more than disappoint his naïve little dreamer. The pickings are slim, so it would seem, when it comes to finding someone who measures up to his exacting standards.

He picks up a hint of promise from one of the girl's teachers, watching the way the man's eyes creep over the hips and breasts of all his female students. Though his gangly frame and apparent aversion to personal hygiene are somewhat off-putting, a quick scan of his thoughts proves that whatever he may lack in allure, the man more than makes up for in perversion and fraying moral fibres – especially if the dog-eared magazine he keeps in his bottom desk drawer is anything to judge by. It's nothing the Goblin King hasn't seen before, and Jareth can well imagine his sweet young Sarah trussed up in silken ropes, a ball gag pushed between her pouting lips and a thick cock stretching out her tight, slick cunt. He imagines her shame, her degradation as she's rutted hard and fast in some cheap apartment, given no choice but to submit as her teacher sweats, and grunts, and pounds his way deeper inside her lush body. When Jareth closes his eyes, he can almost see the dark glaze of desire in hers; he can almost _feel_ the same sick, illicit thrill that she experiences as, drooling and moaning around her gag, she comes, _hard_, for a vile man more than twice her age.

The idle thought paints an interesting picture, but it's not an entirely pretty or viable one. If nothing else, Jareth suspects it will take quite some doing to coax Sarah into feeling anything more than disinterest towards her lecherous teacher, let alone an adequate amount of lust to actually share the man's bed. There's also the small matter of his own visual pleasure to take into consideration as, of course, he intends to observe as she loses her innocence, just as he watches her as she slowly loses touch with certain other aspects of her life.

Jareth smiles to himself. One might almost suspect, in the time in which he has made himself her silent shadow, that he is finally coming to know the girl. He watches her when she wakes up every morning, rested and yet never quite refreshed, drained of the proper inspiration and ambition to tackle the day ahead of her. He has seen the way she sneers and derides, and affects disinterest whenever those around her taste any small amount of the happiness she so lacks. He looks on as she avoids those she is closest to, sulking and dodging every opportunity to somewhat soothe her hungry soul, cancelling plans and overall cutting off her nose to spite her lovely face. He has seen the way she weeps, alone and afraid, over her own inadequacies. She's already beginning to lose that spark of hope, the drive and the passion that those around her still possess in spades. The more he drinks of her dreams, the more he gives her of his poisonous touch almost every night, the more that light within her dims. He's always careful to take just enough to keep her on the periphery of true contentment. The girl feels lost and more than a little lonely, starved of success, and the warmth of compassion, and the attention she craves, and it's all the more reason to get her turned on to far more sensual pursuits, where she can have at least something and someone to fill the void inside her – so to speak.

So the Goblin King goes on with his little game, one eye always attuned to his scrying crystal as he lazes in his private quarters. Sometimes he sits at table with his chin propped up by his knuckles, a half-empty goblet of wine close at hand, and a small wooden solitaire board set up before him. It's as old as he himself is, a fine thing made of dark walnut, with small glass marbles the same creamy shade as polished ivory. He makes his moves with exquisite care, and in no one's time but his own, always turning the next step over in the back of his mind while he puts an imaginary Sarah through her paces in a variety of interesting positions with an array of different men. When his thoughts and his fingers don't quite run in tandem, aroused by the possibility of his delicious dreamer laid out on her knees or on all fours, he grows a little careless, and always manages to come up a couple of moves short of clearing the board. Still, he is nothing if not persistent, resetting the pieces time and time again and starting afresh. He will wait however long is needed – but that is not to say the girl won't be punished for her failure to please him.

His new diversion is amusing, to say the least, but it's not distracting enough to make him neglectful when it comes to her dreams. As his patience with her slowly ebbs, he keeps her waiting each night in the pitch dark, long after midnight, when even the soft tap of rain against her window might be mistaken for an uninvited footstep, and even the sweetest of dreams has had the chance to turn sour. The nightmares he allows her to suffer in those waiting weeks and months are some of her darkest yet, but he ensures that she recalls nothing, save for the vague yet sure knowledge that she has displeased him. She will not sleep completely soundly again – not until she has done what he has demanded of her. Not until her mind _and_ her body have been breached. He will make certain of it.

* * *

Everyone's life seems to be firmly on track, except for her own. Oh, yes, she knows just how pathetic it is to feel a touch of jealousy, rather than pride, when her little brother draws so much praise and attention while he learns how to write. She _knows_ just how pathetic it is to feel nothing but bitterness when Irene's tiny home business venture starts to unexpectedly pick up speed, or when her best friend's short story is selected to be published in a local magazine. Worst of all is that her mother's acting career has really started to soar, just as she has always longed for, and though she has always looked up to the woman, Sarah finds that all she can do is brood in her shadow.

She tells herself she couldn't care less whether Linda Williams is _into the woods_ or _in the park with George_, or whatever hit show she's managed to luck into this time. All she knows is that whatever role Linda Williams deigns to touch these days is sure to turn to gold. It's not like Sarah is deliberately _looking_ for negative press reviews in the papers she scours, but anything that's not blind, almost sickening praise proves incredibly hard to find. She tries one day to broach the subject with Dawn, long-term friend and fellow theatre geek. She gets as far as mentioning her mother's singing voice, and if it's really as good as all of the critics say, only to find herself barraged by a fresh, albeit watered-down version of all those rave reviews she has pored over. Dawn is definitely a Linda fan, but Sarah can't understand what all the sudden fuss is about. She just can't comprehend all the endless _fawning_.

The reviews are one thing, but the cheery, almost _smug_ phone calls are another entirely. Sarah does her best to avoid them whenever she can, but Linda somehow always manages to catch her in the end. Sarah doesn't think she has ever heard her mother sound so full of life, so full of _herself_ as she fills her dear daughter's ear with talk of rehearsals, theatrical cues and after parties. It's not like Sarah is jealous – it's definitely not the first time she has been forced to listen to the _famous_ actress yammering on – but Christ, she can't remember her mother ever being _this_ determined to rub her glamorous life in her face. It's almost obscene, the way she's bragging about everything … except she isn't bragging – not really.

There's an unhappy little twist in her belly as Sarah registers the genuine excitement in her mother's voice, especially as she starts to talk about the possibility of a whole weekend together in the big city, just the two of them. That guilty feeling only claws deeper as Linda gushes about front row seats, and shopping trips, and Michelin-starred restaurants. She wants to share with her only child just what all of her hard work over the years has finally brought her, only Sarah can't stomach the thought of all of those pity presents, or a single luxury meal.

"Maybe some other time," she mumbles into the phone. "I mean, that's really generous of you and all, but I've got reading to do and a ton of homework to think about right now." To be totally fair, she _does_ have that one paper she hasn't gotten started on yet.

"Oh." The disappointment that weighs down that single sound is bad enough, but the artificial cheer that comes after is even worse on her ears and her conscience. "Well, of course your homework should come first. I don't want you getting behind, sweetheart. Maybe we can figure out something for next month instead, huh? I have a couple of vacation days coming my way then, so we could always-"

"Mom, I have to go." Wincing, she presses a hand to her churning stomach. "It's … I have cramps. I don't feel so good." At least that last part isn't a lie.

"_Oh_." That dejected response hits even harder. "Okay … well, you take care then. Stay warm. And Sarah, don't be a stranger, okay? You can come see me any time if you need a break from home, or call me if you ever want to talk. You know I miss you, kiddo."

Her eyes squeeze shut. "I miss you too, Mom. Bye."

She hangs up with a lump in her throat and a curious, bitter tang on the back of her tongue that she knows, despite her guilt, is part satisfaction. Hurting her mother like this isn't winning her any awards or rave reviews, but it makes her own pain feel a little bit less lonely. It's one tiny part of her life that she has total control over. It's one small, sad reminder that even when Linda Williams seems to have the whole world at her feet, she can't have _every_ little thing that she wants. She no longer wants to compete, aspiring to be every bit as great as she once believed her mother to be; that small, sour part of her wants nothing more than to destroy all that her mother has made for herself, believing that, in tearing down another, better woman, it will somehow make her the stronger of the two. She goes to sleep that night with tears drying on her cheeks, but a dark smile on her lips.

At a free desk in the library the next day, her hands are at her temples, attempting to massage some life back into her tired brain. The open book before her is clear enough, plain black print on well-thumbed white pages, but the words it shows her don't seem to make any sense. She still remembers how this story used to fascinate her – how, even after countless readings, every new page would be one she devoured with hardly a pause even to blink. Now, though she ploughs on with stubborn determination, she can't deny that the joy of reading is starting to fade a little. Even though she knows the next chapter is the one where Simona will finally reach the dragon's nest and take her first perilous step towards breaking the witch's dark curse, Sarah can't bring herself to feel excited to begin it.

It's not that the book now bores her – things haven't quite reached that dire a stage just yet. It's more that the once beloved words just don't seem to stick with her the way they once used to. She can read a paragraph, and then have almost forgotten its contents by the time she's ready to move onto the next. Instead of catching in her mind, every word and every sentence serving their purpose to craft a bright picture inside her head, she can feel adjectives and similes slipping away from her before she can get a firm grip on them, keeping the vivid world she's trying to discover dull and dark. There's no more magic between these pages – no just reward to greet the heroine after her long, arduous trek.

It's the same with her textbooks too, mostly. The information she tries to squeeze into her troubled head just doesn't seem to want to remain there for very long. She wonders if part of it is due to her messed up sleep schedule – the fact that she seems to wake up, panting, at least once every night, with no memory whatsoever of whatever dark thoughts have been at play inside of her head. Her mind has always been the only place she could ever truly feel at home in, and now it feels as though she's losing it, one tiny, terrifying step at a time.

By the time her free period ends, she's still no closer to getting lost in a world of fantasy, and she crams the book back into her bag with a frown. It's just as well, she thinks; with a whole afternoon still left and Michael no doubt glaring daggers into the back of her neck to look forward to, it's probably best to keep her wits about her, and not buried in some dumb old book. The class hasn't gotten any harder, her ex-boyfriend's accusatory stare aside, but it takes up far more of her concentration than it used to, just to keep up. She's not coasting like she used to. If anything, she's struggling just to keep her head above water, her grades dipping the very moment she doesn't put every ounce of energy she has into even the most basic of assignments.

When her last, excruciating class of the day finally draws to a close, her sigh of relief is audible. Tired as she is, not a lot of it has sunk in yet, but with any luck the notes she has scribbled down should be clear enough for her to go over when she's feeling a little less dazed. She's still getting her things in order, stewing over her many worries, when Michael hip checks her desk on his way by, sending her books and pens clattering to the floor – all on purpose, of course. "Asshole," she hisses after him, which only draws a grin from her unapologetic ex, plus a cold-eyed stare and brief rebuke for her choice of language from the nearby teacher.

It's impossible for her day to get any worse, and she wants nothing more than to get home and camp out in her room, with her music cranked up so loud that it makes Irene think twice about dumping Toby on her that night.

The moment she walks through the front door, she knows that something is wrong. The hallway rug still bears track marks from the vacuum cleaner, and the scent of fresh polish lingers in the air. Even the untidy cluster of kids' shoes that usually decorates the entranceway has been set to rights, Toby's tiny sneakers and galoshes all clean and laid out in a neat little line. A cautious peek into the kitchen only deepens her sense of foreboding. Merlin is nowhere to be seen despite the host of delicious smells – no doubt banished to the garage yet again. Toby is on his best behaviour, colouring quietly at the tiny breakfast nook, leaving Irene in peace to fuss over what's bubbling on the stove. Whatever she's cooking up, it looks a lot more complex than her usual midweek, one-pot specials. Toby greets his big sister with a flash of a smile before he goes back to his crayons. Irene, however, seems far too pleased to have her home.

"Oh, Sarah, thank goodness you're here," she says, turning her head just long enough for Sarah to note the smear of flour marking her left cheek. "If you want to help out, Toby's hair could use a quick comb, and then if you could set the table afterwards, that'd be great." She spares her stepdaughter another brief glance and a smile. "Oh, and make sure you set it for five, would you? We have a guest coming tonight – one of your father's work colleagues."

Sarah groans and gets the rest of the details when her dad arrives home a little earlier than usual, bearing a smile, some wine, and a little store-bought dessert. Toby is quickly won over by the prospect of chocolate cake and vanilla ice cream, but Sarah is above bribery and not so easily swayed. She wants to know just who they're trying to impress, and why they're bothering to do it on a school night.

"It was a last minute thing, really," her father explains. "He flew in just this morning for a meeting, but the client had to cancel on him. When he dropped by the office and mentioned he was at a loose end this evening, I just had to invite him over – let him experience a real home-cooked meal for a change."

"You didn't _have_ to invite him," Sarah points out, already losing interest in the conversation, now that she knows for sure there's no getting out of playing happy families that night. "I'm pretty sure he could have ordered take-out."

Her dad only chuckles and wraps an arm around her shoulders, giving her a brief squeeze. "Oh, don't be such a grump. I promise you two will get along. You always used to. You still remember Uncle Jack, right?"

She has to think on that one for a moment before the memory slides back into place, and she brightens – though just a little. "Oh, Uncle Jack? Yeah, I remember him."

She's still not feeling exactly sociable, but at least it's not a total stranger who will be sharing their evening meal. It's been maybe a decade since she last saw the man – not an actual relative, but some goofball friend of her father's who always did his very best to make her laugh. She feels a reluctant smile starting to curl her mouth as she recalls the guy – how he always used to call her Sare-bear before drawing her into a big, warm grizzly bear of a hug. He was kind of a dork, now that she thinks back on it: a skinny guy in his late twenties with mousy hair, a vast collection of simple magic tricks, and a much smaller selection of cheap, baggy suits that were always one size too big for him. Still, back then she had thought he was the _coolest_ whenever he taught her a corny new knock-knock joke, or made that quarter appear behind her ear or pass through her drinking glass before letting her keep it. She remembers feeling pretty sad when he announced he wouldn't be coming to any more family dinners, choosing to move out to China as the company expanded – just one of many driven young businessmen following the shift of technology.

According to her dad, Jack's back in the US indefinitely, still practically living out of a suitcase as he bounces around the country, hunting out potential clients. It'll do him some good to break bread with the Williams clan, and maybe finally think about settling down himself.

"We want him to be just as happy as us, right?"

Sarah thinks on this for a minute with what's almost a smile, right up until she notices the way her father is making goo-goo eyes at her stepmother. She makes her retreat up to her bedroom after all – but not before the sight of her dad sidled up behind a giggling Irene, his smiling mouth against her neck, has been seared into her brain. At least Toby is still too engrossed in his colouring to be justly traumatised. She shuts herself away from the smooching and soothes herself with a little new wave until it's almost time for dinner.

Soon enough, the doorbell rings and there's frantic movement in the house as her father puts his best hosting foot forwards, and Irene wrangles a now-giddy Toby in. Sarah listens from her doorway as Jack is welcomed, introductions are made, and compliments are exchanged as they move deeper into the house. She decides she had better put in an appearance before anyone comes looking for her. Even from the top of their stairs, she can already hear Irene's tinkling laughter as she fusses over the new guest and takes his coat.

_Maybe this won't be so bad_, she tries to reassure herself as she descends, already starting to smile a little as the sound of Toby's delighted squeals drifts up the stairs. _From the sounds of it, Uncle Jack's still up to his old tricks. Maybe he can conjure me up some sleep, for a change._

She's still wearing that gentle smile as she steps into living room doorway and sees the matching, fond expressions on both Dad and Irene's faces. There's a suited man on his knees on the floor, and Toby is totally enraptured by him as he recites the sacred magic words.

"_Alakazoo, alakazeer_, make that quarter appear … right … here!"

With a clever twist of his hand, he draws a shiny new quarter out from behind her little brother's ear, and then sets it into his tiny palm. Toby's responding squawk is part joy and part disbelief, and all childish wonder, and hearing it makes Sarah break into a grin. Apparently, Uncle Jack's repertoire of tricks hasn't gotten any better over the years, but business definitely has; he seems to be doing pretty well for himself these days, if the tailored, dark blue suit and gold Rolex at his wrist are any indication. He's still chuckling to himself – a pleasant, gruff sound – as he stands and turns to face her, and she gets her first proper look at him. Immediately, she sees that the man standing in her living room is not at all the old goofball she remembers.

_Oh_, she thinks. Then: _Oh, my._

His hair is dyed a lush honey-blond and slicked back into a messy pompadour, and there's a darker dusting of designer stubble lining his jaw and reaching almost up to his cheekbones, which are fine and sharp enough to cut _glass_. Paired with full lips and piercing, icy-blue eyes, he makes for a devastating combination; her knees actually feel a little weak, and there's an unexpected pulse of heat in the pit of her stomach as she looks at him. That heat only deepens and flickers lower when she registers the shock written in his expression, and sees that she, too, has left him gobsmacked. It's impossible to miss the way those alluring eyes drop to drink her in – impossible to miss the way his expensive suit practically _caresses_ his lean body in all of the right places. Brief though that glance he gives her body is, it still manages to make her tummy flutter. She knows what that look means – or at the very least, what it _could_ mean. She can do nothing for a moment but chew at the inside of her lips in bewildered silence, feeling tense, feeling a surge of gratitude when he recovers first.

"Hey, Sare-bear," he says, a warm, albeit crooked smile taking hold of his mouth. It lights up his handsome face as he opens up his arms for a hug. The words are familiar, and yet now she's finally old enough to appreciate the deep, smooth voice in which they're spoken. "Haven't _you_ grown?"

* * *

The Goblin King, having paused in his latest game of solitaire to keep an eye on the proceedings, now decides to finish it while the drinks are poured and the old memories are recollected. To his good fortune, the last few moves come to him without effort, and as the Williams family settle in for dinner with their intriguing new guest, the very last marble clicks into place.

* * *

_A/N: Just two more chapters to go until we're up to date. Just a heads up: you'll be seeing a little more of 'Uncle' Jack in the future. Things may get a little physical, but this is, as always, primarily J/S (however twisted it turns out!) There's still plenty of interaction between Jareth and Sarah in the next two chapters, but if a detailed account of Sarah/OC and a mention of Jareth/Unnamed OC really bothers you, you may want to skip them. Alternatively, if you want to imagine Jack as a kind of Tin Machine era Bowie, at least appearance-wise, I don't think that'll hurt ;)_


	5. Blush (Part One)

Jack is … something pretty special.

His visits become somewhat of a regular thing – not weekly but close, just like in the good old days – and the Williams family couldn't be happier to see him. Toby adores the man, coming out of his tiny toddler shell to beg for endless magic tricks and silly jokes. Robert Williams still sees him as the young salesman he took under his wing, looking with pride at what he's made of himself, and Irene is more than impressed by the smart, polite man who has so much praise for her home and her cooking. Even Merlin isn't immune to his charm, flocking to the guy for head scratches or belly rubs, now that he's allowed back in the house for the man's visits. _Uncle_ Jack is definitely a part of the family, in everyone's eyes but Sarah's.

She just can't bring herself to call him that any longer – not when she has already lain in the darkness of her room and imagined her legs thrown over the man's broad shoulders and his face pressed between her thighs. She wonders just how silky and thick all that gorgeous hair would feel gathered up between her fingers as she writhes and moans beneath him; she dreads to think just how much of it shows on her burning skin whenever he's nearby. Her guilt is immense, but so is the longing that steals her breath and pulses within her empty core when she's in his presence. The frequent hugs they share are complex things she both treasures and fears.

Whenever he wraps his arms around her and holds her close, she gets a little more lost in the warm, citrus scent of his cologne, wanting to go on breathing him in long after an innocent cuddle might have ended. She's more than a little jealous that, as the woman of the house, Irene always gets a peck on the cheek, however harmless Sarah knows such a kiss is deep down. In her own stubborn heart, no matter how much she tries to deny it, Jack is _hers_. The man has been everywhere and seen everything on his travels, so it seems – a fascinating contrast to her own dull life, where it feels like she has done and seen nothing. She never tires of hearing whatever words spill out of that gorgeous mouth. He's just so perfect, and so handsome, worldly and sophisticated far beyond any boy she has ever met, immaculate in his tailor-made shirts and suit pants, and with never a blond hair out of place. Those striking blue eyes of his make her feel like she's the only person – the only _woman_ – in the room with him. In a house full of her closest family, he's the single person who looks at her as though he's actually interested in what she has to say.

It's been so long since she was last able to remember anything of her dreams, and yet now they all seem to be full of Jack and little else. Every night as she drifts off, she comes to sit beside him at the familiar old table; every night, the two of them grow a little closer, and one way or another, he ends up in her bed. It gets harder and harder to meet the real Jack's simmering stare without melting, when she's certain that the details of each sordid dream are written all over her face. Her stomach twists with longing every time she looks at him, and a part of her dares to hope that he's dreaming, too.

Of course, she catches the way he stares at her sometimes, when he thinks she isn't looking. She notices the little touches he gives her: a pat of her arm or a squeeze of her shoulder, always light and innocent enough to be brushed off as friendly. Only it's getting harder and harder to brush them off, the more she sees him and the more she comes to want him. One night, when he's sitting by her side and he's had a little wine, Jack blurts out a particularly risqué joke. It goes straight over Toby's head – thank god for small favours – but the rest of the table starts to laugh, Sarah included. She giggles at the naughtiness of it, and in that shared moment of fun, Jack's warm hand comes to rest on her knee. He squeezes her through the thin leggings she wears, the pad of his thumb rubbing just a little higher with every pass until it's caressing the inside of her leg. It shocks her into silence, and when he catches her wide-eyed stare, Jack yanks his hand back as if realising he has touched something sacred. The rest of the family go on with their meals, oblivious to the whole exchange, but that small, secret touch seems to linger in the air between them. He barely meets her eyes for the rest of the night, the hug he gives her a lot shorter than usual, leaving her more than upset as she shuts herself away in her room. She worries that she's lost him already, and yet in her dreams, in the private world she dares to share with no other, the hand creeping up her thigh never stops.

* * *

Things with Jack are progressing, it can certainly be said, but not half as quickly as one might hope.

It's painfully obvious that Sarah is infatuated with their handsome new dinner guest. She tries her hardest to keep her eyes and her increasingly inappropriate thoughts to herself, but there's no denying just how much she wants the man. Judging by the looks Jack gives her in return – though never when the girl's father is looking, Jareth notes to his amusement – he's equally in lust with the lovely young thing he has discovered in the unlikeliest of places. The man's mind is a minefield of improper thoughts, which he tries so valiantly to tiptoe through whenever he's in Sarah's presence. Every so often he might falter – smiling a little too long in her direction, or letting his eyes roam a little too freely across her body – but his guilt and his respect for the girl's father are enough to keep him on the straight and narrow, at least for now.

It's a noble path that the Goblin King finds far too dull, and has every intention of tempting them to stray from it.

Now that a suitable candidate has finally come onto the scene – has been practically placed into the girl's palm, rather than through any concerted effort on her part – Jareth is eager to see how well the two of them fit together, in every sense. There's no excuse for such a delay, not when the girl dreams about him every other night, and when his visits become such a regular occurrence in spite of his busy schedule. By the time the man has swallowed down his third serving of Irene's Famous Tuna Noodle Surprise, it's obvious he isn't coming for the quality or variety of the food. It's crystal clear the man has certain other delicacies in mind, Jareth thinks, but not to his Sarah.

Poor, silly Sarah, who has all of the beauty and spirit of a would-be seductress, but not yet near enough of the confidence needed_._ Jareth gives her bare knee an affectionate pat, the tips of his fingers just brushing the hem of her skirt. She just doesn't seem to know exactly what's happening inside her own head these days. One moment she's talking to him as though he is her wicked 'uncle', and the next she sees him for who he really is, though he makes no real effort to disguise himself. Magic blurs the barriers between the two of them and the unreal, but Sarah doesn't seem to mind – not when she has found such a sympathetic shoulder to spill out all of her worries upon.

They sit down so often within her dreams these nights that he finds himself almost beginning to enjoy their little chats – enough so that he even allows her to recall snatches of them in her waking hours. He never tells her his name, denying her what small sway it might offer her over him, but they're quite comfortable dining together nonetheless, whether it's in the quaint little dining room her home has to offer, or the more luxurious trappings of his own castle. With her predilection for fantasy and old-world charm, she seems to prefer the latter, marvelling at the wrought iron sconces and grand open fireplace of his private solar. Given the unnecessary distraction the change of scenery causes her, Jareth is more inclined to stick to the former. He sits that night in the dining chair Jack has only recently vacated, his smitten dreamer close by his side, as always. Regardless of exactly who she sees when she looks at him now, she doesn't shy away from his questions. She doesn't squirm away from the hand slowly working its way up her smooth thigh, and she always proves to be so much fun to tease. Tonight, however, he's hungry for progress – for the promise of real action, rather than all these nights of mere fingers and fantasies.

"Silly girl, what exactly is it you're afraid of?" he questions her, his voice soft and almost whimsical. "It's not like he's going to turn you down." He chuckles as he squeezes her leg. "Honestly, humankind sets such a poor example for its daughters. You're taught to cover up your skin and your desires like they're shameful things – all unless it suits one of your menfolk to see them revealed. _You_ have wants, do you not? You want _him_, do you not? So why not just take him?"

His Sarah heaves out a petulant little sigh – though perhaps the sudden outrush of air has something to do with his wandering fingers. "I don't know … I mean, there's the age difference, for one. He's so much more experienced than I am."

"And that experience is what you want."

"I know, but … if he finds out I'm still a virgin, he'll think I'm just a dumb kid."

"Nonsense. That air of naivete just makes you seem all the sweeter to him. _Ripe_. Luscious, even." He leans closer, and the points of his teeth drag along her earlobe as he speaks. "You're forbidden fruit, love. Can't you see it whenever he looks at you? He _knows_ just how wrong it is to want you, and it only makes him long to devour you whole. He wants to steal away the precious young girl he once knew, now that she's all grown up, and he wants to drag her down into bed with him."

Her eyes are closed now, and her breath catches in her throat. "My dad would kill me if he found out. He'd kill both of us."

"Yes, he would be rather angry, wouldn't he?" Jareth muses, reaching across to pluck at one hardened nipple through her shirt. One corner of his mouth lifts at her responding moan. Across the table, the shadow of the girl's stepmother smiles and offers out a heaped dish of mashed potatoes. He waves her away as he continues. "Possessive as we tend to be, I can't imagine any man would be pleased to find out that one of his dearest friends is defiling his lovely daughter." He can attest to this personally, having done more than his fair share of defiling over the years. He treads a similar path of corruption now, teasing a single finger along her slit through the damp fabric of her knickers as Sarah keens and shifts in her seat. "That just gives you all the more reason to move quickly, before he can see what's happening right under his nose. The risk will make it all the more exciting, and he can't very well prevent it if it's already happening, now can he? Go on. Indulge yourself, sweetness. I'm sure it wouldn't be the first time you've been a _bad_ girl against daddy's wishes, now would it?"

"N-no …"

"_Good_," he purrs. "In that case, there's nothing truly stopping you now. How is it that delightful song you like so much goes again? '_This fever for you is just burning me up inside_'? We both know how true that is, don't we, precious thing? Well, you can't just go on _burning_ for dear Jack forever. He'll eventually get bored and move on to some other sweet young thing, and all of that lovely attention he's been doting on you will simply dry up, and then you'll be all alone again. We don't want _that_, now do we?"

Her shudder as he pinches at her other nipple isn't entirely borne of pleasure. "No. No, I don't want that."

"Of course you don't, and you know just what to do to prevent it. You don't need to fear rejection, love. Not with just how much he wants you."

With her proximity, the scent of warm vanilla and the musky sweetness of her arousal filling his senses and firing his blood, it's quite easy to forget he isn't speaking of himself. Yes, he feels that same longing, and he knows well enough by now that he wants her in his own bed one day, but not until there is nothing else of value left in her, and she has only her lovely body to offer. Until then, he'll settle for a suitable candidate to get her warmed up for him. Sometimes, one just has to make do.

Smirking, the Goblin King allows the very tip of his tongue to dip inside her ear, waiting for her soft moan to die down before he continues. "He wants to _fuck_ you, precious thing. He wants to spread you open and tongue your sweet little cunt until you're screaming loud enough for even daddy dearest to hear you."

"Oh, _fuck!_"

She's panting now, too ashamed to meet the eyes of anyone else at the table, even though her dream-family remain blissfully unaware of their heated conversation, and of the positively disgraceful acts occurring beneath the table. Now the girl's stepmother has strawberry cheesecake on offer, and Jareth tips the woman a wink as he accepts a slice. As vivid as his Sarah's dreams are, the food here still has no real flavour or nutrition. Still, it adds to the fun to pretend, one hand working his fork as the other toys with the soft, damp curls between Sarah's legs, savouring the smoothness and heat of her inner thighs as they come together to crush his wrist. She needs more, locking him against her, and for once he has no qualms obliging her. His own stirring cock seems to demand it.

"You're _sopping_," he observes as his fingers briefly circle her entrance, before making their first slow press inside. The way she feels – gods, the way she _moans – _forces him to bite down on his lower lip for a moment, perfectly still within the hot cinch of her cunt as he swears and _swears_ to himself this is as far as he'll go tonight. She's slick and tight enough, certainly, but he knows it is _nothing_ compared to how good she'll feel in reality. Even so, he finds himself surprisingly keen to sink down onto his knees and simply devour her. It takes some effort to keep his mind on track and on her obedience to him, working his fingers in and out of her wet heat, his thumb teasing at her clit.

"No more holding back," he tells her. "No more half-arsed, timid teenage flirting. Make your move. Make him stop wanting you and start _needing_ you. Push him into taking the next step. You possess all of the power here, my girl, so make sure that you _use_ it." He draws back just as he feels the first tell-tale flutter of her inner muscles, speaking directly into her ear to make sure he's heard even as she wails at the loss. "Make him take you, Sarah, or believe me, I'll find someone else who will. I won't ask you again."

Her bobbing head and throat work in unison to appease him. "Yes … I will, I promise I will. Only please … _please_ … I need to … I have to …"

He nips at her ear with his teeth. "Have to what, Sarah, dearest? Say it. I want to hear you."

Her needy groan is just as amusing to him as it is arousing. "_Come_. Please, I need to come … I've got to …"

Jareth smiles and kisses her flushed cheek, just as his fingers push deep. "That's my good girl," he whispers, but it's lost beneath her wails of pleasure as, after so many months of teasing and then denying her, he grants her an orgasm at his own hand. His eyes close at the blissful feel of her as she pulses and shudders around him, savouring just what such a tantalising test of his patience does to his cock. One day, he knows such patience will be rewarded. He's still smiling as he leaves her to the rest of her dream, knowing she will wake with a smile on her lips and a curious warmth between her legs, and with just enough memory to know what she has been tasked with the next time 'Uncle' Jack is in town.

* * *

Her heart is thumping and there's no slowing it down. She's about to throw herself at a much older man, and hope like hell that he doesn't just laugh in her face. There's no chance of getting him all to herself, not with her family hanging around, and so she's forced to speak in actions, rather than words. When he hugs her, she holds onto him a little longer than she usually does, feeling clumsy and foolish rather than sexy as she all but thrusts her breasts against his chest. It leaves her blushing afterwards, but it's all for nothing in the end as Jack doesn't even seem to notice. Rather than making her lose hope, his non-reaction only makes her that bit more determined. She's sure to steal the seat beside him at the dinner table – nothing unusual in itself – and when he casts those sneaking little peeks her way, she forces herself to look back. Their eyes meet exactly twelve times before Irene has even served dessert, and Sarah is pretty certain she isn't the only one feeling the strange tension that only seems to twist tighter with each glance.

It isn't enough. If he's ever going to risk sneaking behind her father's back to be with her, it's not even _half_ enough for him to simply realise she's attracted to him. He needs to see her as more than just something pretty to look at. He needs to know that she can also be touched.

She feels sick with nerves, prodding at Irene's sickly, rich cheesecake with her fork while her other hand bunches into a fist beneath the table, preparing for the daring task she has set for it. Breathing as hard as she dares, she forces her fingers to uncoil, fighting that panicked part of her which screams to just lunge for him and get this over and done with. She needs to go slow. She needs to seduce. _Make him stop wanting you and start needing you._

The tips of her fingers graze his knee, light and innocent enough to pretend she has caught him by accident, but she can tell he feels it. He's listening to her father go on, nodding in all of the right places, but his eyes sharpen and his jaw tenses when she brushes him again. Yes, he can feel her all right, stiffening in his seat as her palm comes to settle fully on his leg, but he does nothing to prevent it. As she slides her hand towards the inside of his knee, he actually opens his legs wider for her.

Thrilled by such an overt invitation, she lets her palm move higher, skimming over the top of his firm thigh while her fingertips trace its inner edge. Jack does nothing to acknowledge her presence as she strokes him, not even daring to look in her direction, let alone speak to her, but his body does all of the talking for him. His blue eyes look a little hazy now, the breaths he takes short and shallow, his throat working harder than needed to gulp down his water. His thighs are spread wide now, his knee nudged right up against hers, rubbing her in playful yet meaningful strokes. That crucial touch gives her the confidence she needs, and before she knows it, she has her hand fully between his legs, her fingers stopping just shy of his crotch.

She's highly aware that no one is watching her; all eyes are on Jack now as he tells one of his many jokes, and knowing it makes her grin. He has an audience to perform for, which will only make torturing him that much more fun. He does a remarkable job of remembering the punchline, stopping only once to bark out a surprised cough when she actually comes to cup the stiffening outline of his cock under the table. She gives him a few slow strokes, soft and teasing, a delicious heat pooling between her own legs now as she marvels at how hot and thick he feels, even through his suit pants. Her mouth and her aching cunt all but water when she imagines the way he'll feel inside her.

She only realises that the joke is over when her father's laughter fills the air, making her jump and squeeze down a little harder. Jack's response is immediate: he slumps down in his seat with his eyes rolling back in his head, his deep, groaning chuckle a little too loud to suit his own joke. When she starts to cautiously work him again, he shoots her a look, his eyes dark with pleasure and yet begging for her mercy. She gives it to him gladly, knowing her work is done – but not without one solid, lingering squeeze goodbye. She keeps her hands to herself after that, while out of the corner of her eye she notices with delight that Jack can barely keep his eyes off her.

It's finally time for Jack to leave, and Toby is a little fussier about losing his favourite uncle than usual. It's past the poor kid's bedtime, and Irene makes her apologies before she carries the wailing toddler up to his room. Robert follows close behind, jogging up the stairs after them to deliver a forgotten stuffed animal before the screams can _really_ start up. It leaves Sarah and Jack all alone in the precious few seconds before his return, and all at once there are butterflies in her tummy and cotton lining her mouth as the two of them stand together in the hallway.

Jack says nothing, just raises an eyebrow and invites her in for their customary goodbye hug, but when she's in his arms it's a different story. Sudden heat shoots through her body as he draws her against his hard chest, one arm wrapped around her middle and a large hand sneaking down to grope her ass over the skirt she has worn just for him. She can feel his warm touch skimming over her sensitive flesh, teasing her the same way she has teased him. The tips of his fingers trace along the full curve of one cheek, coming to an abrupt stop just before they reach the place her legs meet.

"You," he whispers hot against her ear, "are much too gorgeous and much too dangerous, and you're going to get me into a hell of a lot of trouble if you carry on like this. _Behave_," he insists, but the parting squeeze he gives her and the wicked gleam in his eyes as he draws back says he'll be disappointed if she really does. He leaves her shivering and utterly shaken.

Sarah tries her best to play it cool when her father returns, but there's an impossible warmth in her cheeks and a giddy little smile on her lips that she just can't shake off. By the time Jack's cab pulls away, she's already skimming through her oft-frequented fantasies, wondering which one they'll make a reality first – but not before she catches the shadow of suspicion on her father's face.

It really _does_ make things more exciting.

After that, the game is really on. A certain line between them has been irrevocably crossed, and when Jack returns the next week, he strays across it again – although without meaning to. When he goes in for their customary hug, he forgets himself and ends up pressing a soft kiss to her cheek as well, making her flush. There's alarm in his eyes as he pulls away – the understanding that all is not quite as it should be – but the man is as enviably smooth as ever. He manages to salvage the situation with humour by leaning in, lips puckered, and smacking Irene's cheek loud enough to make the woman giggle. He threatens to do the same to Sarah's father, making kissy noises and batting his eyelashes, until Robert waves him away, chuckling. Good old goofy Uncle Jack – only Sarah knows better.

The five of them sit down to eat, but she hardly notices the food on her plate, not when she's trying so hard to figure out a way the two of them can be alone – _truly_ alone. Her dreams have been so vivid, so _obscene_ over the past few nights, as though rewarding her for her actions the week before, but they're no longer enough. She squirms and fidgets in her seat, the handsome man beside her doing absolutely nothing to calm her down with the way he keeps on staring. He's behaving, all right, refusing to stoop to her low levels beneath the table, but she knows given the way he has already touched her that he's definitely ready to crack. All she needs to do is provide the right pressure. By the time dinner is nearing its end, her stomach is tangled up in knots and she still hasn't figured out a single plausible way she can safely get her hands on him.

Just then, something warm and shaggy bumps into her knee: her dear old dog proving himself to be just as brilliant as the wizard after which he is named.

"Merlin," she blurts out, meeting her family's confused stares as she quickly rises to her feet. "I forgot to take him for his walk before dinner. We really should head out."

Her father frowns and checks his watch. "I don't know … it's getting kind of late." He rolls his eyes, already geared up to fend off her protests. "I know, I know. You're a big girl, but I still don't like the thought of my daughter out walking in the dark on her own. Ol' Merlin isn't exactly a good guard dog."

Just as she had hoped, Jack decides to volunteer. "I'll go with her. I should be heading home soon anyway. I don't mind walking a few blocks before I leave. It'll be nice to get a little fresh air." The way he looks at her is friendly and almost innocent, but there's something in his eyes that makes her whole body shiver.

Her father doesn't exactly look thrilled by the prospect. "Oh, uh … are you sure? We don't want to put you out. I can always take him out myself when we've finished cleaning up in here."

Jack gives that same warm smile that never fails to set butterflies fluttering in her tummy – though Sarah doubts it has the same effect on her father. "Seriously, it's fine. You two just relax and get Toby into bed. I'll make sure she gets home safe."

With no discernible reason to refuse such a kind offer, Robert Williams has no choice but to say yes in the end.

Only minutes later, the two of them plus dog are out in the night, strolling side by side along her quiet street. It's cold out, at least enough for the ghostly white plumes of her breath to be visible, and yet all she feels is heat as she sneaks what she hopes are subtle peeks at the man walking beside her. The sky is dark and clear, and even between the street lamps, there's enough moonlight to see his wicked little smile. It's hardly the first time she's been out alone with a guy – Michael and his car have seen to that – but somehow this feels even more sordid than the most heated make out sessions she's endured. The tension between them is electric, crackling along her skin, and as Jack's arm brushes hers, she wonders if he can feel it even through their clothing. The lengthy silence that walks with them makes her long to dance and squirm.

"Nice night, huh?" he asks at last, the question demanding she look at him for longer than a millisecond to mumble out an answer. Their eyes catch, hold, and then he smirks and raises an eyebrow, nodding at the empty sidewalk ahead.

He's asking if she wants to go on, if she really wants to go ahead with this, and Sarah feels her cheeks catch fire as she starts to wonder exactly what she's gotten herself into. She says nothing, not trusting herself to speak, but she turns her face forwards and continues to let Merlin lead them. Whatever this is, they're doing it.

They reach the corner of her street, finally out of sight of her house, and Jack wastes no more time. He rounds on her, one hand trailing down the outside of her coat until it rests low down on the small of her back. He uses it to pull her into him, the swells of her breasts pushed up against the solid wall of his chest, his face only inches from hers. He feels so _warm_.

"I've been wanting this all night," he confesses, still wearing that delectable little smirk as he presses his lips to hers.

He doesn't kiss like the boys she's used to, all probing insistence, sloppy and demanding, and no grace. Instead he encourages her to give in to him in her own time, coaxing her on with the artful slip of his tongue and the teasing graze of his teeth as he tugs at her lower lip. He kisses with a finesse and confidence that leaves her lips and the now warm place between her legs tingling, and he does it all out in the open, where any nosy neighbour might catch them. She only realises this when he finally pulls back, depriving her of those gorgeously soft lips and allowing a little of the night air to cool her burning skin. His stare is dark and heavy, and it's made just for her.

"I shouldn't have done that," he says, a little breathless, but he has one hand on her ass, kneading, _squeezing_, and he isn't letting go. He searches her eyes for a moment, before his gaze falls to rest on her lips. "Or this, probably."

He kisses her again, and he grins against her mouth as she lets out a soft moan. Sarah can do little more than kiss him back, ignoring the insistent tug of the leash as Merlin tries to hurry them up. Jack's in no rush though as he savours her mouth, and soon enough she's lost in the kiss, and has almost forgotten that the damned dog is with them at all. This time, she becomes aware of Jack's thigh pressing between her own, and his other hand slipping beneath her jacket and climbing. His fingers slide upward along the side of her ribcage until they're cupping her left breast. The shameless groping leaves her hot all over, but she's shivering as she presses her body against him, tilting her hips into his. Jack groans his approval and grips her ass all the harder, finally tearing himself away from her lips so he can mouth at her neck.

"So fucking beautiful," he pants against her sensitive skin. "So _sexy_." She can tell her doesn't want to mark her from the soft press of his lips and sparing use of his teeth, but even as gentle as he is, it feels amazing. His hot tongue finds the tender hollow at the very base of her throat, and her head tips back in utter surrender, her eyes rolling with pleasure. "Who knew that my sweet little Sare-bear would turn out to be such a _bad_ girl?" he rumbles out against her skin.

His words trigger the deepest of shudders, waking something dark that slumbers in the recesses of her mind that she just can't place. All at once, she's desperate to have him inside her. Blindly, she clutches at the lapels of his jacket, dragging him back onto her lips, teeth and tongues clashing, her moans swallowed up by his hungry mouth. Against her lower belly, she can feel the tell-tale pressure of his erection, hotter and harder than even her little groping session at last week's dinner could reveal. She has time to wonder just what the Joneses will think when they find her sprawled out on their front lawn with a bad, _bad_ man between her legs, when something solid collides with the backs of her knees. When she finally manages to disentangle herself from Jack's arms, she looks down into the dark, soulful eyes of her poor, forgotten dog.

Merlin's leash is dragging on the ground, right where she so thoughtlessly abandoned it, and this time it's shame that heats her face rather than lust. "Sorry, boy," she mutters as she bends to scoop it up again. She can only thank her lucky stars that Merlin is too much of an old softy to go running away when he's unattended. Her face falls as her mind throws down every terrible 'what if?' it can conjure up, visions of her dear, sweet dog lying injured – or far worse – in front of a car. It feels terrible to have forgotten him, even for just a few heated moments, but the sound of Jack's quiet laughter eases her guilty conscience.

"Guess we got a little carried away, huh?" It's kind of an understatement, but she doesn't mind enough to correct him – not when he wraps a possessive arm around her waist and draws her back to him. He's still half-hard, his pupils dark and wide with want, and there's that delicious little smile she loves on his lips. "I think that just means I'm going to have to find a way to get you all to myself sometime – if you'd be up for it, that is."

There's absolutely no doubt left in her mind that this is what she needs. "Yes," she says at once – though she's sure to squeeze down extra hard on the leash as she agrees.

Perhaps the two of them take a little too long out on their walk; perhaps she looks a little less than innocent when she comes home after it. Either way, after that night, 'Uncle' Jack's routine dinner invites slowly begin to dwindle. When he does come around, he hardly ever gets the opportunity to sit beside her, and when he does, Sarah notices her father's questioning gaze is always trained on the pair of them. It's like Robert Williams' eyes have suddenly been opened to the fact that his daughter isn't just a little girl any more, and he's more than a little wary of the grown man he has unwittingly invited back into her life. There's no chance of the two of them getting up to anything untoward under her father's watchful eye.

Sarah finds she doesn't mind the scrutiny, or the seating arrangements, or even the fact that 'Uncle' Jack no longer seems to be quite as welcome at dinner these days.

Jack has been doing some inviting of his own, lately.


	6. Blush (Part Two)

It starts with dinner, the two of them alone and finally free to talk over soft candlelight and music so unobtrusive she can barely hear it above her own thundering heartbeat. Jack happily orders mineral water for them both, with not even a cursory glance at the wine list. Sarah offers him a nervous smile in return. She may not be able to drink, but at least she's legal in the only way that really seems to matter to them both. The restaurant Jack has chosen is upscale and tasteful enough as not to scream it in the décor, but it's still a far cry from anywhere she's ever been on a first date before. She can't even remember Michael taking her to any place that had actual _tablecloths_. She fidgets with her heavy, leather-bound menu in silence, noting the lack of prices next to any of the dishes. That can't be a good sign. Her cheeks feel a little warm, her palms a tad sweaty, and worse, she can feel Jack's eyes on her as she flounders. Even though she has felt the heat of his mouth, even though she has felt his hands on her body, she can't help but feel she's a little out of her depth with this man, in this place. When she dares to glance up, the look of concern on Jack's face seems to say he can sense her discomfort.

Their server returns to take their order, and thankfully she manages to request shrimp cocktail and angel hair pasta without stammering. When it's Jack's turn, he turns to the man with a grave face, his hands clasped upon the tabletop, and he asks with genuine concern if the Chicken Marsala is really dead. It surprises a snort of laughter out of her, which the server politely ignores as he assures sir that yes, should he order the chicken, the dish will arrive fully deceased and cooked to perfection. Jack cracks a grin and finally asks for the blackened salmon with salsa, at last freeing the poor server to pass on their request. He's still grinning when the two of them are left alone again, and he reaches across the table to give her hand a brief squeeze.

"_Relax_," he assures her. "It's just me."

That's half of the problem, Sarah thinks to herself, but that small glimpse of the Jack she knows – the goofball beneath the expensive suit and limitless confidence – does more to soothe her than she dares to let on. She expects the conversation to be stilted and a little awkward, at least at first, but Jack refuses to let her go on being uncomfortable. When she doesn't immediately show signs of relaxing, he threatens to call back their server to ask for a virgin orange juice and a fork for his French onion soup. He goes so far as to start raising his hand for attention until she's finally laughing as she begs him to stop. He doesn't break the ice; he _melts_ it in a way that sets a subtle warmth simmering inside her, patient and persistent as he slowly piles on the charm. She's helpless to resist him.

By the time the entrees arrive, she's a lot less awestruck by his presence, but no less captivated by his looks and charisma. He's so easy to talk to that any tension in her body just seems to slip away the more he smiles at her – save for that persistent, twisting ache of longing, deep down in the very pit of her stomach. He questions her all about her life and her family, her hopes and her dreams, before finally confessing just how delectable she looks in her black dress and heels. Naturally, that paves the way for friendly chitchat to give way to flirting, and a little harmless innuendo.

The jokes he tells her are far dirtier than any she remembers hearing, and some of them have her slapping his arm, giggling as she checks to make sure no one around them has overheard. The stories he tells her about the things he has seen and done are even worse, and she's just as fascinated as ever by his lips as they form every last, filthy word. Just the sound of his low, rich laughter sends tingles all along the length of her spine, and she makes no move to hide the way her nipples are tightening for him under her clothing. She doesn't catch him looking – he's far too sly for that tonight, it seems – but it isn't long before he comments on just how _cold_ it is at their table, and smirks as he spears his last bite of salmon.

Dessert rolls around, and the two of them trade lingering, meaningful glances, as well as spoonfuls of chocolate mousse and raspberry sorbet. The deliberate way he sucks the last traces of chocolate from her spoon, all while gazing right into her eyes, forces her to glance away before she embarrasses herself. The way he has taken to idly petting her knee beneath the table has her close enough to doing that already, not to mention biting the inside of her cheek until it aches. She worries she might chew through it completely, given that he's taking his sweet time to finish eating, smirking and teasing her all the while. He doesn't give her a chance to even see the cheque, nor does he insult her intelligence by promising something as cliché as coffee when he invites her back to his hotel room.

The anticipation of it all ripples through her belly, and she's a little giddy throughout the whole cab ride, aching, _dying_ for him to touch her again. In the end though, he keeps her waiting.

Until after she's finished gawking at the polished marble floors, the grand staircase, and crystal chandelier of the opulent hotel lobby.

Until after she has spent a solid thirty-eight seconds confined in the sleek glass-fronted elevator beside him, with tension crackling between them and spreading like wildfire through her skin.

Until he finally has her in his suite and he urges her back against the door, every warm, solid inch of his body moulded to hers, and he _takes_ her mouth as if it has always belonged to him. She's the centre of attention – the centre of his universe as his hands traverse her body, and his lips caress her ear, letting her know how much he wants her, and all of the delicious things he's going to do to her. Now she finally has what she wants.

* * *

Now it's finally time for the fun to begin.

After dedicating so much of his time to encouraging his dreamer to indulge, it would be hypocritical of him not to do the same. On what is turning out to be such a _special_ night for his Sarah, the Goblin King has no intention of denying himself. After discarding his boots and his shirt, he lies back on the soft sheets of his bed, feeling spirited and downright playful as he rolls a glowing crystal from palm to palm. There's a strange sense of pride when he sees just how hard his girl is trying to let herself go, and admiration for the other man's patience as he slowly eases his way into her knickers. He can't deny his greed as he watches their kisses, and he runs the pad of his thumb across the crystal's curved exterior, as though he might hope to capture the warmth of her alluring lips.

He hasn't allowed himself the full pleasure of her mouth since that single, impulsive kiss in the back seat of a lesser man's car. He still hasn't quite forgiven his dreamer for triggering such a potent and entirely unforeseen reaction in him. His Sarah seems to have quite a power of her own, though she knows it not, and it makes him all the more keen to see her surrender it to another, entirely at his bidding.

"Time to give in, gorgeous girl," he whispers, and though the only other person in the room exhales a little harder at his words – what could almost be considered a sigh – he knows she does not dare to challenge him.

There's a pretty young brunette, naked save for the silver collar locked around her slender neck, who kneels in submission on the floor beside his bed as she waits for his instruction. Out of all of his pets, she has become one of his favourites as of late, with her emerald eyes, full breasts, and her skin like warmed silk, though he cannot quite say as to the reason why. He keeps her in his peripheral vision as he watches his dreamer in the shimmering depths of the crystal, one hand free to toy with his pretty plaything's long locks. For all her beauty and unquestioning obedience, there's something lacking in the way her hair feels wrapped around his first, the limp strands causing his knuckles to itch so badly he's forced to abandon the effort entirely.

He focuses instead on the sight of his dreamer, his sweet Sarah, who has been stripped down to just her lacy undergarments and is perched on the very edge of a luxuriously wide bed, skittish but not yet prepared to bolt, all coltish legs and wide green eyes. There's strength in both her body and her resolve, but that faint undercurrent of fear, of fragility, makes her all the more tempting. Her pale skin is stained a most becoming shade of pink as she slips one strap of her brassiere from her shoulders, soon followed by its twin. Jareth feels a small twinge of annoyance when his view of her becomes obstructed, but he can't really complain when the girl's lover is urging her onto her back, all that thick, dark hair spread like night across the pure white bedsheets. A moment later, his patience is rewarded when she starts to moan, her fingers coming to clutch at the back of Jack's head as he lowers his mouth to her bare breasts.

The sounds she makes are pure, raw pleasure, and when Jareth hears her whimper he just knows that good old Jack has one of those taut, dusky pink nipples on his tongue. His own mouth fills with water as he imagines sucking, _biting_, following the trail the other man's lips blaze as they move down and down her supple, writhing form. His lips part as his breathing grows a little laboured, almost matching Sarah's soft pants as Jack dips his tongue into her navel. She starts to squirm, her hips rising up off the mattress as teasing fingers trace patterns over the minuscule scrap of lace that is her knickers.

"Patience, love," Jareth hums under his breath as the lace is slowly peeled away, but his own body seems just as averse to waiting. There's a familiar tension building in his thighs and in the muscles of his stomach, but he refuses to indulge himself until he has seen this all through. The closest he comes to acknowledging his own needs is to unbuckle his belt and unlace his breeches to give his cock room to grow.

He's already half hard, but seeing her exposed and so wet, her lush lips already dripping with arousal, has him throbbing. There's a moment where he can clearly envisage tracing that tempting slit with the head of his cock, stroking her until she begs for him, and then Jack's tongue bars his path, sending Sarah's eyes rolling back in her head in the process. There are men who see cunnilingus simply as a means to an end, and there are those who make an art of it. The Goblin King is pleased to see dear Jack is definitely one of the latter. As he licks her, Jareth finds himself graced with a vision of pure ecstasy: his Sarah, restless and writhing, and utterly overwhelmed by sensation. Her eyes are dark with desire, her full lips pursing in pleasure and then parting in shock as Jacks tongue delves into her luscious little cunt. Oh, how delicious her innocence is; she's trembling and _blushing_ even as she lifts her hips to urge him on. It's another brand new occurrence for the bashful virgin, and Jareth can read every moment of wondrous disbelief on her lovely face.

_It's all quite filthy, isn't it, pet? Lying back, legs spread like the little whore you know you _could_ be, letting him see you up close like this, touching and tasting every inch of you. Listening to all those lewd sounds … because you're soaked for him, aren't you? Oh, just wait until he has you sitting on his face, riding that wicked tongue. Just wait until he has you tied down and helpless, with no other choice but to come and _come_ as he feasts on you._

He's not certain if she manages to hear his dark promises, but all at once her body seizes and almost jack-knifes in the middle of the bed, and she _wails_ her release as Jack tips her over the edge. Jareth hears himself growl as he watches her lose control, his eyes torn between the roll of her hips and the arch of her back, the flex of muscle in those long legs, and the perfection of her face as she cries out in sheer bliss.

Afterwards, his dreamer is all smiles, gasping, almost giggling to herself in the warm afterglow. "Oh, wow. That was … it was just … _wow_ …"

Jack chuckles as he starts to kiss his way back up her luscious body. "Mmm … I'll take that as a compliment. God, Sarah, I could eat you for hours."

Sarah laughs and tosses her head back, still shivering. "I don't know if I could take it!" She sobers quickly, and Jareth can see the deliberation on her face. She doesn't want to let things unsaid make her a liar. "No one's ever done that to me before. In fact … there's a lot of things I kinda haven't done yet."

"I had a feeling." Giving the underside of her breast one last kiss, Jack draws himself up and over her so he can look directly into her eyes. "We don't need to go any further than this, all right? We don't have to do anything you don't want to."

There's a moment of silence in which she absorbs his words, and the Goblin King smiles in triumph when he sees the new fire in her eyes. "Oh, trust me, I want to." She brings herself up on her elbows so that she can be on his level, urging him back onto his haunches. "I want _you_ – want you to show me _everything_."

Jack groans and turns his head away. "_Fuck_," he says, chuckling. "You can't just say things like that."

"Why not?" she demands, and Jareth has to admire the new confidence her first real orgasm, caused by something other than her own fingers, has instilled in her.

Her lover smiles and shrugs. It's quite clear that this last barrier he's struggling with is as flimsy as the one that should have kept him away from his old friend's only daughter in the first place. "You're so young. _Too_ young," he points out.

Sarah strokes his cheek with one bold hand, her thumb grazing across his mouth. "I'm old enough," she tells him. "Old enough not to get you into trouble. Old enough to know what I want." She brings her face close to his and flits out the very tip of her pink tongue, tasting herself on his lips before she confesses. "Old enough to know how badly I want you to fuck me."

A mortal man has only so much willpower, and Jareth is gratified to see _this_ man's crumble in the face of his Sarah's declaration. "We'll take it slow," Jack promises in a gruff voice, before he surges forward to claim her mouth. Evidently, this is one deal the suave businessman is a little too keen to make, before his mark can change her mind. He starts to shrug off his clothing just as quickly as he does any foolish hope of stopping this.

Jareth has to admit, the man is trim and toned, and just as pleasing to the eye as he had hoped, but to Sarah he may as well be Adonis himself, given the way she ogles him. A part of him is pleased to see his girl so smitten – it will make her that much more amenable to some of the filthier tricks Jack still has concealed up his sleeve – but there's a small pinch of irritation thrown in there as well. So far, he has only seen that wild, hungry look inside her dreams, and never in reality. He finds himself concentrating on all of the beautiful bare skin laid out on show, rather than her eyes.

His cock is steadily leaking now, aching with such cruel neglect as he goes on watching the show put on for his benefit. Sarah is a hungry girl as she shifts onto her knees, downright _delighted_ to give lucky Jack the same degree of oral attention he has given her. The sight of her plush pink lips and eager tongue at work is a pleasurable one, and Jareth decides there and then to take himself in hand and indulge in a couple of slow, lazy strokes. The corner of his mouth lifts when he sees just how hard dear Jack has to struggle not to spend himself in Sarah's. The man has admirable restraint though, quickly coaxing her off his cock and onto her back again. He covers her lips and throat with hot, hard kisses, his fingers alternating between strumming that sweet spot between her legs and pushing up inside her. Jareth knows for himself just how much she likes _that_.

The moans, the high-pitched begging sounds she makes are so sumptuous that he can't resist touching himself a little more firmly, squeezing his aching shaft, though not into submission. He works himself slowly as a condom is found and the last few soft reassurances are uttered, and the two lovers finally move into position. This is it: the main event, as it were, and Jareth all but crows in satisfaction.

Among his kind, there is never quite the same fuss over a single sexual encounter as the mortals seem to kick up. There's no sacred sacrifice of virginity, no symbolic loss of purity; it's simply a step on a much larger journey of passion, pleasure and excess. Tonight is but one night – an evening where all those tiresome barriers of fear and doubt are finally broken down. Once Sarah has been taken like this, once she truly starts to see herself as a real woman, then her eyes can truly be opened. She doesn't _need_ the traditional missionary position, or the familiar face of a friend turned lover, or even a cock inside her to start her on that journey proper, but she _believes_ she does, and right now that's all that interests him. Later, when she is a little better versed in the basics, her horizons sufficiently broadened, he will show her himself just how much more there is on offer.

There's no question in Jareth's mind now that she will one day be broken, wholly and unequivocally his, in every possible way he can think of. All that remains is to wait.

This period of waiting, at least, finally comes to an end as Jack kisses her bare shoulder and slides himself into place. Sarah cries out, and immediately Jareth's full attention is locked on her lovely face. Her pain is exquisite, as is her slow struggle past it – always wanting _more_, his girl, reaching out for the pleasure she knows is rightfully hers. Every breath comes in sharp, shocked little pants as her body adjusts to the intrusion. Jareth drinks in the glitter of tears adorning her dark lashes, the cords of tension standing out on her pale throat, and he begins to work his throbbing cock in earnest. He's delighted to see that rather than wasting time pandering to her, petting her cheek and whispering false words of devotion to soothe her, Jack now begins to move inside her, breaking her in.

"It'll get better soon, trust me," he assures her, ever the smooth salesman as he slowly drives his way deeper, urging her body to open to him. He stoops down to kiss her mouth, and then brings his lips to the tender shell of her ear. "You feel _incredible_," he tells her, his thrusts coming with more force now as Sarah warms to him, her nails pressing into his shoulders as she starts to moan.

Jareth grins and praises her under his breath, and then beckons with some impatience for his plaything to finally join him on the bed to continue what his hand has begun. He slips out of what remains of his clothing, and soon enough, his cock is wrapped in the silky heat of the woman's talented mouth. He treats himself to a slow, wet fuck of his pet's soft lips, enjoying the flicker of her tongue as he watches the fun in the hotel room unfold. With his cock finally receiving the attention it needs, he's free to watch Sarah's growing excitement, her sparkling eyes turned skyward, her lover's eager lips plastered to her glowing skin as she writhes beneath him. Her head turns and he sees her shock, her delight as she catches sight of herself, gloriously nude in the room's lengthy mirror, and he hears the way it makes her moans all the louder. There's no shame, no remorse in the way she angles her body, chasing her pleasure, and having her so wanton, so free before his eyes arouses him more than anything he has ever witnessed within her dreams. He can almost taste the fine mist of sweat on her rosy skin, and feel her scalding heat inviting him in.

With a desperate groan, he pulls himself from his pet's mouth and orders her to roll onto her belly instead, legs spread and bare arse up in the air, ready for her king's use. He doesn't want to see her face, and so he pushes her down until it's buried in the bedcovers as he positions himself at her entrance. He fucks her perhaps a little more roughly than he intends, one hand still holding the all-important crystal, and the other gripping the nape of her neck as he fucks her down into the mattress. She's warm and tight enough for him to tune out her mindless squeals as he watches Sarah shudder and sigh on some faraway bed, as the lover he himself has chosen for her rocks between her spread thighs. The thrusts are harder now, and her lean legs snake around his hips to draw him deeper, urging him on, her eyes squeezed shut, her head thrown back in beautiful, _agonizing_ bliss. Jareth hears himself curse as Jack's hand dips between their bodies, and his sweet dreamer's cries take on a new urgency. Her eyes fly open, an awe so genuine, so _powerful_ written in them that it stops him dead in his tracks.

She _sees_ him watching.

For one impossible moment before she comes, she's staring right into his soul.

For one unforgivable second, the Goblin King falters.

He comes back to himself with a jolt, his heart pounding, his stomach lurching up into his throat. The fingers holding onto the crystal are almost slack enough for it to slip between them, and he has to fumble with the slick sphere for a second before he can resume his viewing. His Sarah is panting hard, her arms thrown around her lover's back as she starts to come down, and Jareth lets out a breathless little chuckle. The lazy, satisfied smile on her face tells him that all has gone as planned and all is right with the world, no matter what he imagined. She has finally taken that all important first step, just as he has commanded of her, and now there's no turning back. He watches for a few more moments before the niceties of pillow talk begin to bore him, and then he tosses the crystal aside, where it withers and dies on his bedsheets.

In spite of his confusing little misstep, seeing what he _thought_ he saw, his erection hasn't flagged in the slightest. Better still, his wonderfully tight little plaything hasn't moved a muscle, waiting without complaint for him to go on at his leisure. With both hands now free, he seizes hold of her hips and begins to drive himself into her in deep, unhurried strokes as his mind replays visions of Sarah at her finest: in pain and fear and reluctant pleasure, her sweet pink slit stretched and equally lovely mouth poised open by her very first cock. The memory pleases him enough to go at his willing bedmate with new vigour, pushing her harder, faster, until she's screaming against the sheets and her juices are freely running over his shaft. After a time, he wets his thumb with saliva, his grin wide and quite genuine as he tests out the tightness of the slender brunette's appealing little arsehole.

"Now then," he breathes, his cock pulsing at the soft, shocked sound his pet makes, even as he withdraws. "Let's see how well _you_ remember your training, shall we?"

* * *

A/N: All caught up! Future updates may be a little slower, but there's lots more fun to come.


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